


The Conqueror and The Burglar

by GreenT



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dark Dwarves, Multi, fem!Bilbo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2014-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-06 19:40:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 60,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/739370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenT/pseuds/GreenT
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dwarves of Erebor and their loyal dragon are conquering Middle Earth, with Thorin Oakenshield leading them. When they come upon the Shire, they meet a new resistance: a tiny burglar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And So It Begins

**Author's Note:**

> Just putting this out there for interest.   
> And yes Fem!Bilbo is my favorite part of this fandom.

They began with the elves. 

It was the just after the death of King Thrain that the dwarves of Erebor and their loyal fire drake descended upon the forest of Mirkwood and destroyed everything in their path. 

Decades before, when the dragon Smaug came to The Lonely Mountain seeking its gold, a deal was struck. Smaug would get his golden nest and spare the dwarves’ lives, for they could mine more gold for him. And the dwarves would not attack the dragon, for he could protect them. King Thror was hailed as a wise and mighty king for his ingenuity, and there was much rejoicing. 

But when King Thror passed and Thrain ascended the throne, the new monarch had an idea. They had a force unlike any other. A weapon nearly indestructible. Why not use it? So in a bargain with the drake, promising all of the gold of Moria, the dwarves marched. 

It was in the battle of Azanulbizar that Prince Thorin took the hand of the great pale orc, and earned his name Oakenshield. It was in the battle of Azanulbizar that Smaug showed his true strength to Middle Earth, and scorched the tunnels of Khazad-dûm, killing the monsters that resided there. It was in the battle of Azanulbizar that the prince got his taste for conquest, and Middle Earth saw a new power rise. 

Many tried to ignore the signs. They defended the dwarves and denied the truth to themselves. The truth that the dwarves could take on any army in Arda with their dragon if they wished. The truth that no one whom possessed any gold or gems was safe. The truth that the young prince had a thirst for battle. Some paid attention. Some watched the prince and the dwarves and their dragon closely. Some were suspicious. 

But King Thrain was a good king. While he may have not been as kind to the people of Dale as his father, or as respectful to the elves as his council, he was never cruel or unjust. 

And then he died. 

There were rumors of how. So many that the truth could never be accurately deciphered. 

But when the Smaug, under orders from the new king, burned the forest Mirkwood to the ground, people stopped talking about the old king rather quickly. 

It was the new king people needed to worry about, for he had a vast hate of elves, a disdain for Men, and a bloodlust towards orcs. 

The dwarves raided what little was left of the elven stronghold. Many wondered whether he would stop there. He didn’t. 

The dwarves and their drake pillaged and burned the forests of Lorien and Fangorn. They colonized the Misty Mountains and warred with the Men of Rohan, eventually overcoming their forces. They took over Dunland and made Rivendell their own trading port. 

The dwarves were somewhat merciful, only killing and burning where they met resistance. Unfortunately, many rulers of Men and Elves thought little of the dwarves with their short stature and alleged thickness. Those leaders were wrong. The leaders whom actually voiced their assumptions were fed to Smaug. The dwarves of Erebor turned villages and cities into military bases, mines, weapon smithies, and farms. Middle Earth became the factory of their war machine. 

All the while Thorin ruled. He was feared, respected, hated, and in one very small place, completely unheard of. 

That place was the Shire. 

And in the Shire lived a little people called hobbits. 

In all ways other than height (and possibly the love of food) hobbits and dwarves were opposites. The hobbits were peaceful, kind-hearted, gentle farmers. They liked comfort, joyful parties, and family. They paid little attention to the world outside their borders. 

Not to say they didn’t have friends outside them.

Which brings us to Gandalf the Gray. 

He was a mighty wizard, one of the first to suspect that the dwarves could be dangerous. And he was one of the few wizards left. Radagast the Brown had fallen in the burning of Mirkwood. Saruman was trapped in his own tower by the dwarves. Gandalf, the Gray Traveler, was the only one free and living. 

And he was a friend of the Shirelings. 

He believed that Thorin would not stop until he had all of Middle Earth under his thumb, and at the rate he was moving west, he could very well reach the Shire. So Gandalf hurried. 

But Thorin knew. He had many spies. He heard of the wizard’s flee westward, and while no one could give a clear reason why the wizard did so, Thorin did not like it. Wizards, as he had come to know them, did not flee. Radagast had fought with an army of animals, only dying under the dragon’s breath. And though Saruman did not step out of his black palace to fight, he did not fly away on the back of eagles either. So where was Gandalf going?

Thorin led his armies as fast as he could, conquering everything in his path, after the wizard. 

By the time Gandalf finally made it to his goal, Thorin was already on the edge of Bree. 

The wizard had little time. He ran to the only hobbit he knew would believe him.

Bilba Baggins. 

The daughter of the adventuress Belladonna Baggins, and the current caregiver to the wee Frodo Baggins. 

He told her disaster was coming. He told her that the dwarves would be there by morning. He told her to run. 

She packed. 

She threw all that was necessary into a back pack, scrambled little Frodo out of bed, and they ran for the forest. 

They knew they could not save the Shire. 

But that didn’t mean they couldn’t fight the dwarves. She and Gandalf created a plan. A weak, unlikely to end well plan that worried Bilba, but what else could they do? Middle Earth was at its edge, on the precipice of disaster. The chance of a good plan had died long ago. So Gandalf ran off to tend to other matters, and Bilba made a campsite that was livable. 

And she prayed that her home would not be devastated and demolished come morning.


	2. The Company

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess I'm sort of basing this on the dark dwarves artwork on Pixiv, because holy crap those are cool.

As Thorin and his personal guard marched in front of the army, he almost laughed when he thought of the Rangers they had fought in Bree. They hadn’t even bothered to call the rest of his forces. He and his dozen comrades were more than enough for those simpletons. 

His guard, known the Company, was rather unsuspecting though. When most saw them without the rest of the soldiers, people would only think a few of them actually dangerous. 

They were dead wrong. 

Because these dwarves were each handpicked by the king and conqueror for their abilities, their lethality, and he would choose each and every one of those dwarves over the mightiest army. 

Of course, Thorin Oakenshield was one of the greatest warriors of the age, not to mention one of the most ruthless. Skilled in the axe, sword, bow, and hammer, there were few he could not kill in minutes. 

One of those was Dwalin. He was likely the fiercest soldier of the group, though he cared little for strategy. With his fighting skills he needed little more than a single weapon to take out a whole team. He was wholly loyal to the king, and one of the rare few Thorin would trust with his life. 

Dwalin’s brother Balin was of the more unsuspecting variety. Appearing old and kind, the aged warrior was anything but. He was a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield, and a mind to be feared off of it. He was the brains behind the Company, and mercy was not his forte. 

Next were the brothers Oin and Gloin. Oin was their resident medic, but his knowledge of anatomy of any race made him invaluable. He knew every race’s weak spots, and just where to hit when one wanted information. His brother Gloin was more the soldier. His abilities with an axe were remarkable, and his accounting skills kept Thorin aware of what supplies they needed. 

Then there were the Ri brothers. The eldest, Dori, was the strongest in the Company, able to break anything from armor to bones with his bare hands. He also had a wide knowledge of poison plants, which he was notorious for slipping into the teas of his enemies. 

The middle child, Nori, was Thorin’s ear to the ground. His spies were spread far and wide, so Nori knew every trade route, secret or no, and who was on it and with what. And what Nori knew, Thorin knew. He was also one of the most dangerous dwarves, with an insurmountable number of knives of his person, master thieving abilities, and skill as an assassin. 

Last but certainly not least, was Ori. At first, Thorin had only brought him along at Dori’s request; at the excuse that he could record the tale of Thorin’s conquest and greatness. As it turned out, Ori was quite the demon child. His knitting needles, with which one would usually be worried that he’d poke his own eye out, were solid steel and brutal weapons. Whether he used them as throwing knives or swords, they were reliable and immensely versatile. With them, he could make scarves that could strangle a man in seconds, or be of such scratchy wool they could cause a victim to bleed out. The boy was also incredibly observant, and was as useful in psychological warfare as he was in bodily battles. 

But the true pathological minds of Thorin’s motley crew were without a doubt the members of the Ur family. Two brothers and their cousin, they were three of the scariest and most demented dwarves Thorin had ever met. The cousin was Bifur, who was usually quiet save for his episodes. He had an axe embedded in his skull from an orc battle, and could only speak the dwarven language Khuzdul and the sign language Iglishmek as a result. He appeared to have also lost his sense of fear. For no matter what the situation was, who they were up against, or what supplies or weapons they had, Bifur would go into battle and fight ferociously. He would kill anything from a puppy to a troll on command without hesitation. Favoring a boar spear as opposed to traditional weapons, Bifur was one of the few on the team that was not feared for his skill, but for his lack of any emotion towards his missions. The others rarely felt guilt or solace, but they would often take joy in their victories, but Bifur seemed to think none of it mattered. He just did as he was told. 

Next was the younger brother, Bombur. The fat bastard was their cook and waged war with his solid iron spoon. He was quiet as well, but took malicious joy from brutally murdering his victims. It was rumored that as a child he had been trapped in a mine after a cave-in. Allegedly, he was the only one not injured or partially trapped by the rocks, so in the week it took to dig him out, he ate the miners. While he was the largest and slowest in the Company, no one said a damn word. 

Except for his older brother, Bofur, the comedian. The dwarf always had a smile on his face, constantly cracking jokes on anyone and everyone. It spoke of his bravery that he even knocked Thorin once in a while. Or perhaps it spoke of everyone else’s caution that no one told him to stop. Because Bofur was a very special dwarf. The kind of dwarf that would smile sweetly and tell you how nice you looked while he smashed your kneecaps with his mattock. The kind of dwarf who would put on a laughing face while he said horrifying things, just to see what you would do. The kind of dwarf who would give you a hand and be kind until he got bored and then would do something vicious. The kind of dwarf Thorin wanted in his Company. 

Which brings us to Thorin’s own two nephews, the heirs to his growing kingdom. Fíli, the eldest, was what every good prince needed to be: smart, efficient, and loyal to his king. Thorin taught him everything, save for how to overthrow or murder one’s superior. Fíli could appear cold or kind or stupid or whatever was needed to get what he wanted. Though he was barely an adult, the Crown Prince was a warrior to be bowed to. 

His younger brother Kíli, who had much less responsibility, just enjoyed being a psychopath or sociopath or whatever they called him in the latest village they conquered. He fought and killed out of love for his uncle, and for the fun of it. He laughed as he slashed and whooped as his arrow stuck. He would beam through a blood-splattered face and hold up his trophies with pride. He knew there was a small chance he could one day be king, but he didn’t dwell on it. He loved his brother with all his heart. And he would brutalize anyone who harmed him. 

While his Company was small, Thorin knew they were almost indestructible. No wizard or animal or army in Middle Earth could stop them. 

And that fact was the one thing that gave Bilba comfort. Because she was none of those. She was a tiny hobbit lass, an inexperienced burglar, and the one thing they would never, ever expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have got a couple ideas on where to go with this so I'm taking a vote. Happy ending, sad ending, scary ending, or it's-not-happy-but-everything-is-mostly-okay ending. What do you want?


	3. Humor to the Helpless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dwarves arrive in the Shire.  
> Bilba pranks.

The Shire was a very special place in Middle Earth. It was a place of peace, untouched by war for centuries. It held the smallest people of Arda, the little children of Yavanna. And it was the one place in Middle Earth where nothing ever happened. 

Life went on, sure. There were parties and famines, birthdays and funerals, the seasons passed, the years went by. But little of the Shire was known to any book or Big Person outside of the worldliest minds, like that of the wizards. The Shire was a safe place, not because it had large defenses or great warriors, but because it had neither. It was not a kingdom; it had no gold or jewels or anything of much tangible value other than farmland. 

What it had was love. It had coziness and warmth and gentle breezes. The Shire was a place that had not seen pain or suffering in decades, and the hobbits there liked it. That was how they lived. They had absolutely no interest in gold or gems, power or land, conquest or bloodlust. It was, in every way, a peaceful place. 

So when the army of dwarves came marching through its dirt paths, the hobbits didn’t know what to think. 

Most stood in their yards, watching curiously, putting up no resistance whatsoever. They didn’t even realize there was a reason to. It looked like a parade. While the dwarves were not as large as the Big People, they were just as loud and ostentatious, apparently. Walking here and there in those sharp, metal costumes, what were they doing? Was it a dwarven holiday? 

The only hobbits who seemed at all disturbed by the fact were the most respected Bagginses and the most adventurous Tooks. The Bagginses were right offended, because what was this? Those dwarves were marching everywhere. They better not step on the petunias. And so much noise! What were they doing, the hobbits were not told there was going to be a parade. When did they even get a permit to put on such noisy show? The Tooks were curious more than anything. Dwarves? In the Shire? Incredible! And in traditional armor! How fascinating. They should get portraits done. Would the dwarves agree to portraits? Why were they doing this? Were they showing off? Now just because a race has a talent doesn’t mean they should go flaunting their skill at forging metal around. Did hobbits march through Middle Earth with their crops? No. 

So what were the dwarves doing?

Bilba was the only one who knew the truth. And she was hiding in the woods with Frodo. 

On a normal day, the only hobbits who would have noticed Bilba’s disappearance would have been Hamfast Gamgee and his son Samwise, who lived next door. They were out watching the dwarves parade, so no one knew. 

And as Bilba put up her small tent, covered it with leaves and branches to hide it, and began unpacking her mother’s old adventuring kit, she missed all the happenings in Hobbiton. 

The gossip was that the leader of the dwarves had demanded to see the leader of the hobbits, which was the Thain but he never really made decisions on his own so he called Adamanta Took, Gorbadoc Brandybuck and Laura Grubb, the heads of the largest clans, whom he usually spoke to about important matters (Laura now being the matriarch of both the Baggins and Grubb clans)to join him. Evidently, the dwarves were taking over the Shire. 

Well then. 

That went over about as well as anyone can imagine. 

The Thain looked at him blankly, then at the armored dwarves, and agreed. As did Gorbadoc. 

Adamanta and Laura agreed with overly-sweet smiles, politely giving them traditional hobbit names in Old Hobbitish, so that they may be more easily accepted. All said names just happened to be old curse words. 

The dwarves didn’t understand it, and the children found it very funny. 

Because when one’s land is being taken over, it is best to take humor where one can get it. 

Most of the dwarves began setting up tent camps on the hills and empty fields, while the higher brass ones were given rooms in the smials. 

Of course, the highest dwarves needed to be given the nicest, largest home, with the most food and least amount of small children running everywhere, and were kindly recommended the home at the top of the hill with the large green door by a hobbit woman named Lobelia. 

She told them that while large and roomy, the smial only had two inhabitants, one a child, the other a very quiet, polite woman, who would be happy to clean and cook and do whatever was needed to keep her guests comfortable. 

That, of course, is about as far from the truth as one could get in a description of Bilba Baggins, emphasized by the fact that when Thorin Oakenshield and his Company arrived at her home, no one was there. 

Most of his crew believed that the owner must have been out watching the dwarves with her charge, though Thorin had a small suspicion that this might be Gandalf’s doing, a suspicion that only increased when the hobbit lass did not return that night. 

And she was out for good reason.

Because one must be very careful when choosing an outfit, especially when one is visiting a conqueror. 

\------------------------------------------

It was very late, or very, very early depending on one’s tastes, when Bilba returned to her home. Garbed entirely in black, from her blouse to her trousers to her fingerless gloves to her mask that revealed only her eyes, Bilba snuck in through the small window in the kitchen. 

She was worried that the dwarves might post a guard, but so amazed by the hobbits’ incredible submissiveness (still unknowing of the vulgar names bestowed upon them) the Company hadn’t bothered. They had marched for days at high speed to try and catch the wizard, and seeing a place of such comfort was an opportunity none would pass up. They each even got their own bed! Well, a few got couches and chairs with padded footstools, but nonetheless. 

Bilba and Gandalf had agreed that she should start small. She needed to get her footing as a burglar, and test the dwarves’ tempers. So she spent the next hour not making a sound, padding through her own home as the dwarves slept. Truly, she could have made a lot of noise and gone completely unnoticed, as the dwarves snored like a thunder battle, but still, good for practice. 

She decided to begin with a more joking sort of theft. It wasn’t theft actually; she left all of their things in her home. She just moved stuff around.

She moved a shield to the other side of the room, a knuckle-duster under a pile of clothes and a glove at one's feet. A hearing trumpet was shifted to the lower shelf and a was bead lifted to a higher one. A tea bag was pulled out of a purse and a knot was undone, before a quill and knitting needle switched places. Bilba moved a goat skull to the mantle and rolled a cheese wheel back to the kitchen, after hanging a hat on the coat rack. She folded a lazily-tossed fur coat and left with an arrow pointing up in a quiver. 

Each little prank could go unnoticed. They could go the other way too. Bilba was curious as to how attentive the dwarves were, and how easily they were angered. This would be a good test. 

She grabbed a few extra cookies from the pantry, and snuck out.

And as soon as she was back in the forest, she started laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I deal with every unpleasant thing in my life by laughing about it?  
> Maybe.


	4. Up the Ante

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The results of Bilba's pranks.  
> Frodo is tiny and innocent.  
> Bilba returns to her home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a nigh-unanimous vote I have decided to write a happy ending. Your barrage of pleas touched my cold heart.  
> Congratulations.  
> I now know my readership is full of sappy babbies.

It was Bofur who noticed. 

All of Bilba’s other pranks were passed off as random happenstance. Anyone could have knocked over Thorin’s shield in the night and reset it. The clothes could have fallen on Dwalin’s knuckle-duster while he was unpacking. Balin could have shifted in his sleep so his glove moved around. Oin and Gloin wrote their pranks off as memory problems. Dori thought his tea bag was removed by Nori just to mess with him, and Nori thought the knot was Dori’s doing. Ori knew he could often sleep-knit or sleep-write, so the movement of his tools was no big deal. Bifur was confused as ever, and didn’t notice the shift of his goat skull. Bombur assumed it was one of the others who had taken the cheese wheel back to the kitchen, likely to try and save some for them. Fíli believed it was Dori’s need for neatness that caused his coat to be folded in the night, and Kíli thought his brother had turned his arrow just to annoy him. 

But Bofur, oh Bofur. 

Somebody had moved his hat. 

_Nobody_ touched his hat.

But someone had. They had taken it from his very hands in his sleep and hung it up on the rack.

That someone was going to pay. In blood. 

But the problem was that he had no idea who had done it. So he brought it up at breakfast, mattock notably present. He entered the large dining room, table already overflowing with food, with a smile stretching from ear to ear. 

“Morning lads!” he greeted kindly. A few cheery verbal replies and a handful of waves answered. “So boys,” he began as he sat down, “Which one of you hung me hat up last night?” 

The dwarves froze. They had seen what happened to the last guy who touched Bofur’s hat. They had watched it. All four hours of it.

“Nobody, Bofur,” Bombur said steadily. He was the only dwarf Bofur would listen to when he went into one of his…darker moods. “I was in there all night. So was Bifur. No one could have snuck past all of us.” The room was deathly silent as Bofur rolled this over in his mind. 

“No dwarf, you mean. But those hobbits seem pretty light on their feet,” he answered. 

“You think one of the halflings was able to get past all of us?” Dwalin grumbled. 

“They don’t seem like the type to try,” Balin agreed. 

“Besides, you’ve got your hat back. What does it matter?” Kíli said, rather thoughtlessly. The dwarves stilled once more as Bofur slowly turned his manic-crazed gaze to the prince. Kíli’s eyes opened wide as the other dwarf began to rise from his seat.

“Bofur,” Thorin called from his seat at the head of the table. “Enough. We will investigate it, but no one in this Company would have dared. Sit down.”

Bofur begrudgingly obeyed. 

\------------------------------------------------

“Auntie Bilba, why do we have to stay in the forest?” Frodo asked at breakfast.

“That’s what camping is, dear.”

“But why? Why’d we have to leave at night?”

Bilba sighed. Frodo hadn’t taken the change well. He was a curious boy, and enjoyed the outdoors, but he missed Sam. And he certainly hadn’t lived like this before. 

“Are bad people in the Shire?” 

Her head snapped up at the question. What a child. But Bilba had never liked lying to him, and decided to tell the truth. At least the amount he could comprehend.

“Yes, dear. There are bad people in the Shire. And we have to hide from them. It’s like a big game of Hide-N-Seek.”

Frodo paused as he thought, nibbling on one of the cookies she’d snagged. 

“Is it the Sackvilles?” 

She laughed at that. Frodo had never liked his Sackvilles cousins anyway, and Bilba’s distaste for them had become understood in the months he’d been staying in Bag End. 

“No. It isn’t the Sackvilles. They are a people called dwarves, Frodo, and they can be very scary.”

“Are they Big People?”

“No, but they are a little taller than us. But they are very strong and have swords and axes and could hurt you. I want to keep you safe, okay Frodo? That’s why we have to stay in the forest.”

“Okay, Auntie Bilba.”

\---------------------------------------------------

That night, she returned to her home. She dashed through town in the dead of night, looking for signs of earlier violence or struggle. There were none to be found. Just tents and boot prints. When she snuck into Bag End through the kitchen window, she checked it over as well. Anything to give her a hint as to how the dwarves reacted to her tricks. Again, nothing. Either they hadn’t noticed, or hadn’t taken their revenge out on her home. As she tried to decide what to steal next, she happened to pass one of the rooms where the dwarves were sleeping. There were three, two in the bed and one enormously fat one on the floor covered in blankets. She remembered the goat skull, cheese wheel, and a particularly odd-looking hat. 

Oh, now there was a difference. 

The hatted one. Last night the hat had been lying on his stomach, and he had held one of its flaps lightly in one hand. Tonight, he was on his side, his arms wrapped around it in a vice grip. It could just be how he was sleeping, but it looked like he was trying to protect it. 

Either way, it was curious. 

But Bilba decided that tonight, she actually needed to steal something. Not something terribly valuable, just noticeable. Or noticeably missing. 

A mischievous, Tookish voice in her head told her to steal something from the leader, Thorin Oakenshield. She tip-toed into his room and peered around. Her eyes landed on his oak branch in the corner, but she stayed her hand. No, that was too much for this early in the game, as was the Arkenstone that was hanging around his neck. 

Thorin, ever the courageous ruler, had never trusted anyone with his family heirloom. He did not even dare to leave it in Erebor in his throne room during his campaign. He had decided to have it inset in a thick golden chain that forever hung around his neck. 

Just thinking about stealing it gave Bilba shivers. But it would have to wait. Whatever she stole had to unimportant. If it was valuable, they might hurt the hobbits. No, it had to be insignificant, easily replaceable, but just obvious enough for someone to perceive it was missing. 

She nicked his pipe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You sappy, sappy babbies.


	5. Dances with Dwarves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dwarves realize something is wrong.  
> Bilba doesn't give a damn.

Thorin knew for a fact that what had happened was impossible. 

His pipe was missing. 

That. Was. _Impossible._

Because, 1: He was Thorin Oakenshield, King and Conqueror, and he did not misplace things, and 2: No one was dumb enough, brave enough, or insane enough to steal from him. If they were suicidal, they would have a less painful time throwing themselves off a cliff than stealing from him. And this couldn’t be a hallucination, because he was Thorin Oakenshield, etc., and he did not have hallucinations.

So where was his damn pipe?!

It just didn’t make sense. 

Now that he thought about it, neither did Bofur’s hat being hung up. 

That afternoon, Thorin pulled the miner into a private room with Balin, and the three had a very serious discussion.

\-------------------------------------

Bilba was enjoying herself. She had a new pipe, which was very fine indeed, Frodo was chasing butterflies in the field, and her peaceful afternoon seemed perfect. She was still giddy from the antics of the night before, and was plotting her next steps carefully. If she moved too quick, the dwarves might lash out at the hobbits, but the longer she stayed her hand meant the longer the dwarves stayed in the Shire. 

She wondered if anyone had noticed her missing. Probably not, as most would assume she was taking care of the thirteen dwarves now living in her home. 

When Bilba found out who told them to go to her house she’d have their head. 

Metaphorically, of course. 

\-------------------------------------------

It was the same time as normal when she went back. Very, very early in the morning. She slid through the kitchen window and glided through her home silently. But this time something was different.

They had posted a guard. 

Luck saved her. She just heard the squeak of a rocking chair before she went by the sitting room. Bilba didn’t dare walk past the doorway. She spun on her heel, padded her way back to the kitchen, and closed the window behind her. 

This changed things. 

They knew there was a thief, more or less. 

No matter. Easy to deal with. 

She walked around the outside of the hobbit hole, until she arrived at the window of her study, which happened to be at the end of the hall with bedrooms. Slipping in, she cracked the door open and snuck slowly through the hall, listening for any more signs of guards. 

Nothing. She grinned. 

If the dwarves were going to step up their game, Bilba decided she should too. 

That night, she stole away with every bead that wasn’t nestled in a dwarf’s hair. 

The next morning, every dwarf in Bag End knew there was a thief about. One that wasn’t Nori. 

No one mentioned it to anyone outside the Company. It was a tad embarrassing. And it wouldn’t do to give any tips of how much they knew if the thief heard. 

They had to assume it was one of the hobbits. A whole civilization submitting like that? Unlikely. There had to be some resistance, and they had found it. It was just a matter of snuffing it out. 

So the dwarves started to subtly ask around. They spoke to the officers who had the most interaction with the hobbits if they knew any that might cause trouble. They asked hobbits who sold goods at the market if they ever had trouble with criminals. 

And they asked that helpful woman Lobelia if she knew where that Baggins woman and her nephew had gone, because she certainly wasn’t in her home. 

And that’s when it hit them. 

\---------------------------------------------

When Bilba returned that night through her study’s window, she was extra careful. She had watched the dwarves’ movements with a looking glass from the edge of the forest. They had certainly been out and about. And they spent an annoyingly large span of time with Lobelia. Then they had been up much later than normal, and she heard the sounds of pounding metal and wood-work from the edge of her garden. 

When she cracked open the door, she was infinitely grateful to the Valar that she had only widened it enough for her eye to peer through. 

They had set traps The doors were all connected with a complex array of metal chains as well as bells, along with bear traps and tripwires. Should she have opened the door much further, it would have awoken every dwarf in the smial. 

Bilba gritted her teeth. Okay then. 

Taking a deep breath, she plotted out what to do. 

Holding the bell that would have sounded with two fingers, she pushed the door only wide enough to allow her to slide through. She released the bell, and began down the hall. It was like a dance, swooping and sliding and twisting past, under, and over their chains and traps. Bilba smiled when she reached the room where the dwarf king slept. 

Repeating her steps with this door’s snare, she stepped inside. One of the dwarves she had seen sleeping in there nights before was missing, likely on watch. The old one with white hair was in a large, soft chair with an ottoman, while the dwarf king slept in what had been her parents’ bed. It was the biggest in her home. For a second she froze, because he was lying facing her. But he was sound asleep. Bilba was amazed by the amount of light in the room, all given off by the large stone encased in the armor-like golden chain draped around his neck. 

She crept over to him and studied the chain, while trying to ignore the thick muscles of the dwarf. He had a barrel-chest and his arms were as thick as her head! And so much hair! Dwarves were odd creatures. 

And Bilba forced herself to not add ‘disturbingly attractive’ to that. 

The chain got thinner further around his neck, ending in a small combination lock at the opposite side to the Arkenstone. His thick hair was pooling over the pillow, and she got an unmasked view of the numbers. It seemed simple enough, but she couldn’t just lean over him with her lock-picks for five minutes. She needed the code. Four digits. 

A year?

Bilba tried to guess. His birthday? Probably a little too obvious. The birthday of someone he loved? Too sentimental. 

The year he got the Arkenstone?

It seemed rather egotistical, but the more Bilba thought about it the more it made sense. He could have made the necklace, set the stone inside, then locked it with the first date to come to mind. No one would have ever tried to steal it, so would he have ever bothered to change it? He was Thorin Oakenshield, Scary Dwarf Lord, Conqueror of People Taller Than Him. 

She gulped hard, and leaned only as far as she had to for her tiny, nimble fingers to spin the numbers to the right year. Every second was a terror-filled moment in which he could wake up and snap her neck. 

And then the lock opened. 

Without letting her eyes pop out of their sockets in shock, Bilba kneeled slightly, figuring the best angle at which to pull. The part of the chain under Thorin’s neck wasn’t touching him; his neck was suspended by the pillow, with the chain lying on the mattress. She put on hand on the rock, one on the upper end of the chain, and pulled up and away. 

He didn’t wake up. 

Bilba had the Arkenstone. 

She left the room just she entered (save for a necklace), danced back through the security array, and out the window. When she got safely into the garden, she found the small button on the inside of the necklace that set off a mechanism to release the stone. The Arkenstone fell into her hand. She dropped it into one of her pockets, and left the chain on the doorstep. 

When Bilba got back to her camp, Frodo was still sleeping, and she buried the Arkenstone in her bedroll. 

When Thorin awoke the next morning, his roar was heard throughout Hobbiton.


	6. Steal and Be Stolen From

The search started in Bag End. The Company overturned the smial, looking for clues, any hints, even the stone itself in low hopes. They found nothing. Their traps had failed, the conqueror’s greatest treasure was gone, and they had no idea who could have done it. 

Well, they had a bit of an idea. 

It had to be one of the hobbits, for starters. 

Thorin ordered the search to continue. The army descended upon Hobbiton, Tookborough, Brandybuck Hall, all of the Farthings and everything in between. The hobbits were quite irritated at their homes being rummaged through, but had no power to stop them. None knew exactly what was going on, and none really cared. They just wanted the dwarves out. 

When every squadron reported that they had found nothing, and no hobbit seemed to have any idea what any of the dwarves were even asking for, Thorin grew even more enraged. 

But something was nagging at him. 

That shrew-like woman that had recommended this house, promising a maid. 

Thorin wasn’t sure who he suspected more; Lobelia or this Bilba Baggins he had yet to meet. 

Either way, blood would be spilled. 

He demanded that Lobelia be brought to him, and in the case she wasn’t the thief, they knew the real thief couldn’t have gotten far, so he ordered the army to search the forest. 

\---------------------------------------------

Bilba was worried. 

She was finally in the End Game of things. Tonight, she planned to return to her home. Not to steal, but to leave a message. ‘Get out and get it back’ was sounding nice so far, but the risk was higher and ever. She had ventured into the less busy side of town that day, trying to learn what she could. The dwarves had been ransacking the villages, looking desperately for the stone. If they found it, her head was on the line. 

And that was on the merciful side. 

But it would work. 

It had to. 

She had kept the stone on her when she went to Hobbiton, feeling guilty about leaving Frodo alone in the forest but knowing someone would recognize him easily. Bilba knew how to blend in, but he was just too young to understand much of her plans. She needed to end this. The Arkenstone, tucked deep within her satchel, felt like a lead weight. 

When she got back to her camp, finding it torn apart and Frodo missing, it felt like a mountain. 

\------------------------------------------------

“Hey, Uncle, look what we found!” Kíli laughed, bursting with glee despite the cruel act he was currently in the middle of. He thrust forward a brown sack towards his Uncle as his brother closed the round green door of Bag End behind him. Thorin cocked an eyebrow at the bag, unimpressed and much more involved in much more pressing matters. 

Then he noticed the bag was moving, or at least the thing inside it was. 

Kíli dropped the bag and it let out a painful ‘uumf’ from a hidden creature. One that slowly, fearfully peaked its head out. 

Dark black curls and ice-blue eyes stared back at him. 

“You kidnapped a hobbit child,” Thorin said dryly. 

“We found him in the forest. Alone,” Fíli said pointedly. Thorin’s eyebrows jumped. 

“Did you find—“

“Nothing else,” Fíli answered, “We ripped the tiny camp apart. There were two bedrolls. No trace of the other person though.”

The conqueror glared at the child, who crawled quickly back into the sack. Thorin thrust an arm into the bag, dragging him out by the collar of his tiny tunic. 

“What is your name?” he growled loudly. A few of the other dwarves had heard the commotion and were beginning to wade into the foyer, getting quite surprised when they saw the scene. Thorin wasn't exactly the gentlest soul in Middle Earth, but holding a squirming toddler by his collar three feet off the ground was not a normal occurrence. Dwarves valued children, even if they didn't have the same feelings about mercy.

“Frodo!” the little one shrieked, “Frodo Baggins!” 

Thorin snarled angrily. That Bilba woman was becoming guiltier by the second. 

Kíli chuckled. Thorin turned his glower on him. 

“What is so funny, nephew?”

“He looks like a hobbit-you!” Kíli laughed. Thorin gaped and his head spun back to the boy. In basic traits perhaps there were a few similarities, but he was nothing like this sniveling hobbit child. He dropped it back on the floor. 

“Where is Bilba Baggins?” he snarled. Frodo opened his mouth in fear, what could he say? He knew these were bad people, and his aunt was all he had left!

But just then, there was a knock at the door. 

\-------------------------------------------------------

Bilba didn’t know what she was thinking, knocking on the door of her old home.

She was thinking she was going to die, but that it didn’t matter. 

She had to protect Frodo. 

This wasn’t his fault. He had already lost his parents. It would hurt to lose her too, but not as much as what the dwarves might do to him. 

There was a deathly silent moment after her knock. She gulped. 

And then, slowly, the door swung open. 

Bilba found a group of nearly a dozen dwarves standing in her foyer, little Frodo sitting with his back to her at the feet of the one she knew as their leader, his golden necklace decidedly missing a certain something. 

The nearest two were a blond and brunette, looking at her curiously. 

“Good afternoon,” she said with cautious etiquette. At the sound of her voice Frodo spun, eyes widening at her appearance, but stayed silent. 

“What do you want, hobbit?” Thorin asked gruffly. 

“Oh, well, I was just coming to check on Bilba and my cousin, Frodo,” she lied with a concerned frown, pointing at the boy. “None of us have seen either of them since you all came to town. We were a bit worried.” 

The dwarves watched her suspiciously, some more confused than anything. 

“I’m Petunia, Petunia Brandybuck,” she lied quickly. “Some of my siblings and I heard Bilba was, ah, tending to you all, so I thought we might take Frodo off her hands, bring him back to Brandybuck Hall. I can imagine him getting into your hair.”

The dwarves all glanced at Thorin, who grimaced as he thought hard. They needed answers from the boy, but what was he going to get? Still, best to keep him here until he spoke to Lobelia…

“Come in,” he said, or rather ordered. Her mouth hung open for a moment before she obeyed. Bilba felt her stomach drop as she heard the brothers close the door behind her. “What do you know of Bilba Baggins?” he asked. The Company stared at her. 

“Ah, well…” She tried to think of something. “She’s very kind. And caring. Took in her nephew when he lost his parents,” she said, meeting Frodo’s eyes and praying he understood. “Lived alone until he arrived. Why do you ask?” she asked innocently. 

“Because we have not seen her since we arrived, either,” he replied darkly. 

“Oh dear,” Bilba said, “I hope she’s alright.” Thorin opened his mouth to speak more, when the door burst open. A large, tattooed dwarf with knuckle-dusters held a struggling Lobelia in his arms. The entire party in the foyer turned in shock, but Lobelia’s eyes locked on the other hobbitess. 

“Bilba?!” she shrieked. 

Bilba closed her eyes as she felt her stomach drop to the depths of the earth, and didn’t even scream when she felt cold metal hit the back of her head and all things faded to black. 

\-----------------------------------------------------

When Bilba woke, she discovered that she was tied to a rickety wooden chair facing the sitting room fire, that Thorin was sitting in her father’s chair in front of her, and Frodo was shaking like a scared mouse in his lap. Thorin held a knife in his hand, and the Arkenstone back in his necklace. Her head throbbed and she could feel dried blood peeling against her scalp. Thorin was giving her a look that promised a fate worse than death.

“Give me one reason,” he said, more humoring himself than anything, because in a people so passive he did not expect such successful resistance, “why I should not torture you and your nephew until you beg for death.”

Bilba struggled to think through the pained fog in her head. Gandalf had told her about this, told her that asking for mercy was asking for worse cruelty. She would not win her nephew with sentimental pleading. She swallowed the sick feeling in her throat and answered. 

“Because you need me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a happy ending. Don't worry.


	7. A Deal With A Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They need her to succeed.  
> She needs them to survive.

Thorin snorted. 

“I highly doubt that,” he said smugly, a heavy hand resting on Frodo’s head that every so often would pet the boy like a cat. 

Bilba racked her brain. What possible use did she have? She could steal, that much she had proven. She could sneak around without being seen or heard. But for what?

“Gondor,” she said huskily. Gandalf had described the current state of the world before he left. Thorin and his army had taken most of Middle Earth, but the large kingdom of Men was still holding out in the south. 

Her idea made Thorin pause, an action she wasn’t sure whether to be happy or worried about. 

“And what could you possibly do for us in Gondor?” he sneered, “And why in Mahal’s name would I ever let you go?”

“Because I can get close,” Bilba said, gaining confidence the more she thought about it, “Gondor is taking refugees from the lands you’ve conquered, but dwarves can’t get within a hundred miles of Minas Tirith because of their guards. Hobbits are different enough from dwarves they wouldn’t think I’m a threat. And when I’m in the city, they wouldn’t even notice me.”

“You think you could spy on the Men?” Thorin asked. Bilba nodded, her throbbing head hanging on her neck painfully. “Why should I trust you after your crime?” he said darkly. 

“You shouldn’t,” Bilba said honestly, “But I stole to try to get you out of the Shire. To protect my people. My nephew. And now you have him. Tell me what choice I would make.”

“You would trade a kingdom of Men for your small village? Your single nephew?” Thorin asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“You would trade all three for your rock,” Bilba replied with no small amount of snark. Thorin smirked. 

“So I keep a knife to your people’s throats and you give me all the secrets of Gondor, is that it?”

Bilba nodded. 

“And when Minas Tirith is conquered and I have both civilizations in the palm of my hand?” he asked, an evil, sly smile creeping up his face. 

“You’ll have just that. You’ll have your stone and all of Middle Earth. Whatever I do won’t matter after that,” she said with a tint of defeat in her voice. 

“Oh, but it will,” he growled, standing up and grasping Frodo by the back of his shirt, “Because people would hear of your rebellion. Of your fight. And you would inspire them. And I can’t have that. Just how did you know of Gondor’s strength for someone of such an isolated race?”

Bilba stared, wide-eyed with horror as he pressed the flat-edge of the knife to Frodo’s throat. She gulped hard. 

“Your wizard will die slowly,” he said cruelly, finally putting the pieces together. “But you should know the last person who rebelled against me has sat in my dungeon for the past few months with half a meal a day, continuously beaten within an inch of his life. And all he did was fight me. You stole my Company’s belongings. You toyed with us. You stole my Arkenstone!” he roared, “What do you think I should do with you, to show I am unstoppable?”

Her pain-fogged mind went into overdrive, the fear for her nephew’s life goading her on. What could she do?

“You’re having me fight for you,” she answered as steadily as she could, “That’s the biggest turnaround you could get.”

He eyed her, studying her fearful expression, and dropped the boy to the ground. 

“I suppose,” he said, and if he wasn't so laden with armor Bilba might have seen him shrug, “But I might change my mind after I sit on the Throne of Gondor. For now though, you should watch yourself. Nori!” 

The dwarf arrived in a second after being called, expecting to join in the torture. 

“Untie her,” the conqueror said. The spy snapped up sharply in surprise, but didn’t dare question his leader. With a small knife he cut the ropes keeping her confined, and she dropped to her knees on the floor, Frodo rushing into her arms. “You will teach her everything you know of Gondor,” Thorin ordered his soldier, “And everything about spying.”Nori’s eyebrows jumped again at that. He was expecting to make this woman suffer, not to make her into a soldier. But what Thorin said was law. 

“What about Bofur?” Nori asked. The miner had been begging to smash her nephew’s skull in front of her all evening. 

“Tell him to get over it,” Thorin declared. “And you,” he said, kicking Bilba none too lightly with his boot, “You will serve us for the time being. You will cook, clean, and if I hear you talk back at all your nephew will suffer. Harshly.” 

Bilba nodded hastily and hugged Frodo closer. She would do anything for him, but Yavanna dammit she was going to kill Lobelia. 

“You will sleep on the floor in the sitting room and Nori will teach you what you need to know between chores,” Thorin continued, “And you are to tell no one of your actions, am I clear?” She nodded again. “Go.” 

Bilba picked up her nephew and fled the room, passing through the hall and by the door to the kitchen where she noticed nearly a dozen dwarves residing in the corner of her eye. She rushed by, plopping down in front of the fireplace and rocking Frodo in her arms. It comforted her as much as him. 

A few dwarves popped their heads in, watching her with glaring eyes and more than a few weapons in hand, but a quick word from Nori had them resting their axes. She heard one murmur that she looked more like a grocer than a burglar, but perhaps that was a good thing. When she did get to Minas Tirith, she’d need to be inconspicuous. 

It hurt to know that she and Gandalf’s plan had failed. They had hoped so hard to save the Shire. But Bilba knew the chances for success were lousy from the start. Now it was all she could do to keep them alive. 

Bilba had been defeated. 

But that didn’t mean she couldn’t save Frodo.


	8. I Shall Not Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin thinks about their burglar.  
> Bilba makes another dwarf think.

Days began at dawn for Bilba. She had to rise before the dwarves, cook for them and herself and Frodo. She had to clean the dishes, do their laundry, and keep the place as neat as possible. 

A difficult task, when housing over a dozen dwarves. 

In the afternoons, Nori would teach her about Gondor; its leaders, design, culture, and strategies. Nori was a cold teacher, not afraid to threaten her when she didn’t learn fast enough. And when they sparred? 

Bilba never left the makeshift ring without new bruises. 

The other dwarves enjoyed watching these times. She was quick, light in her feet, able to duck and dodge but the lass had no idea how to hurt another person. It took a while for Nori to defeat her, but she left battered, and he was nearly untouched. Sweaty and tired, perhaps, but not pained. The dwarves didn’t know what to make of it. What opponent didn’t work to harm their enemy? What was she thinking? 

Thorin didn’t worry. If she failed, it was her and her nephew’s heads on the line. It hardly mattered to him. Whether he won Gondor with a hobbit or an army, he would have that kingdom bow to him. 

Bilba did strike his curiosity though. Why had she resisted when no others had? The wizard had given her advice, that much was obvious, but why had he picked her? What made this delicate creature so special that a member of the Maiar would leave plans with her? 

And why did all the hobbits laugh when he was called that traditional hobbit name the older women had given him?!

The hobbits confused the dwarves as much as the dwarves confused the hobbits. Such a tiny people, with no gems or precious metals, no steel or bronze weapons. They only used iron and silver, and that was for farming and eating. Soft and beardless, they reminded many of the soldiers of dwarf children. But Thorin did not let himself underestimate them. That was a road to failure, a risk he would not let himself take. 

And yet, this little woman intrigued him. He had conquered and killed out of greed and malice. She was willing to do it out of love and loyalty. He would taunt his victims viciously. She pranked those who would surely kill her. Thorin could kill nearly anyone in Middle Earth. Bilba was brave enough to face them all. 

But her sentiment was a weakness, one he was happy to exploit. If Nori could mold her into a good spy, the hobbit lady could conquer Gondor for him, from the inside-out. A little voice in his head wondered if it would be possible to actually turn her to their side forever. The conqueror was always on the look-out for some new person worthy of joining his guard. If the hobbit’s talents grew, or they were able to twist her mind enough, she would make a useful ally. Able to sneak around silently, slitting throats and learning secrets, stealing for him. The lass could make a talented spy. 

But Thorin doubted she’d ever join willingly. If he really wanted her help, he could always put a knife to her nephew’s throat. No need for loyalty to him. 

Thorin did not bother putting much thought into it. He’d get what he wanted, whatever happened. 

\--------------------------------------------------------

“Again, hobbit.”

Bilba took a deep breath and rose from the dirt. There would be a new purple splotch on her rib cage tonight. Nori stood unamused and unimpressed as the lass stood, holding a small staff. He held his longer one by his side. The spy had been tutoring her in many weapons types, and today was the staff. She was not doing well. 

Bilba could block and duck faster than any dwarf, but she never hit back, never even tried. 

She took the stance she’d been taught, and he came at her again. 

Swing, block, thrust, dodge. This dance went as most did, with her struggling to even hold her weapon while Nori tried to shove her to the earth. 

His slice hit home, and she fell to the ground, the wind knocked out her. She crumpled into a ball, desperate to get her breath back. 

“Get up!” 

She didn’t. 

“Get up, Halfling, and hit me!” 

Bilba’s frame shook for a moment longer, and she labored to rise again. When she finally made it to her feet, Nori was actively yelling. 

“You pathetic simpleton. You think you can bring down a kingdom without hurting someone? You think you can get by without killing? Suck it up, hobbit. You’re going to have to gut someone sooner or later, so you’re going to fight me, and you’re going to actually try to beat me, and not dance around like some fairy!” 

Bilba panted painfully, body sore and mind tired. 

He attacked her again, but this time, she strove to act differently. Her moves were less jumpy and more calculated, only moving just as far as she needed to not get hit. Nori only became angrier. 

“I said hit me, hobbit!” 

But she didn’t. 

She waited for the perfect moment, when he slammed his staff into the ground where her foot had been a half-second earlier, and grabbed the end of it. In his state of expended energy and surprise, Nori’s grip was loosened, and she ripped it out of his hands. He took a step back, wary of her plans, but she simply dropped both staffs. 

“I don’t want to.” 

Nori blinked at her. 

“What?” 

She stared him straight in the eye, bruised and battered, and repeated. 

“I don’t want to hit you.”

“You don’t want to…You don’t—How?!” Nori exclaimed. “We came storming in here, took over your town without a peep, and nearly sliced you into a hundred pieces! We’ve turned you into a slave, and you won’t even take the opportunity we’ve handed to you to get some revenge?!” 

Bilba just shook her head. 

“I guess it’s just not in my nature,” she said quietly. “There are more ways to assimilate a kingdom than violence. Sometimes, all you need is the exact opposite. War only causes death, Master Dwarf. I much prefer diplomacy.”

Nori gazed at the hobbit lady, stunned silent. 

“Is the lesson over for today?” she asked politely. He nodded absent-mindedly. Bilba strode to the smial to begin dinner, leaving Nori in the backyard, wondering. 

How could such a tortured creature not want to be violent? How could she live in pain and not want to deal it out to others? 

How were hobbits so peaceful, when every other race had a history of war and hate?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tell me what you think!


	9. Through Their Stomachs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They say the quickest way to a man's heart is through his stomach.   
> But what if he doesn't have a heart?

Frodo’s life hadn’t changed too much. Most hobbits’ lives hadn’t. The hobbits of Middle Earth had an unusual talent, one few knew of. The hobbits were like willow trees. They bent easily, in the wind or rain. But it took quite a bit of force to make them fall. 

So the hobbits of the Shire continued with their normal routines, uninterested in the fact they were being colonized. They were a tad annoyed at having dwarves living in their smials and fields, and it was quite a surprise when they found out that not only did dwarf women have beards, but there were plenty of them serving in the dwarven army! But life went on. Hobbits did not worry themselves with the issues of Big People. They were above it, metaphorically speaking. 

Frodo’s experience may have been a little different to the average hobbit. He now lived with over a dozen dwarves, and his aunt worked as their maid. He wasn’t clear on the agreement his aunt had made with the bad people, but she always smiled when he was around, so he decided it couldn’t be that bad. 

Most of his days were spent outside with the other hobbit children. They played in the grassy plains and ‘spied’ on the dwarven invaders. But he always returned to Bag End for his meals and to sleep. 

The dwarves were scary, especially with their big knives and metal hats, but they never harmed any of the other hobbits and only took what they needed. 

Frodo didn’t like them, but he didn’t hate them either. 

Not yet.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------

Bilba pulled the cookies from the oven, carefully leaning away from the heat. The men staying in her home had an odd affinity for her desserts. She knew it was a good idea to keep them happy, so cookies it was. 

The largest dwarf, a quiet fellow named Bombur, was always present when she cooked. At first, she thought it was out of curiosity or his want for first taste. But as her naivety to dwarven nature shrank, she began to see the real reason. Suspicion. 

Bilba knew he had once been the cook of the company, a skilled one at that, so he knew his way around a kitchen. The likelihood of Thorin selecting him to make sure they were never poisoned seemed high. She was rarely left to her own devices, but this was one of the few times where she knew a dwarf was watching her specifically. Considering the circumstances, it was probably a bright idea on Thorin’s part. 

After the cookies cooled she moved them to a plate and offered it to Bombur. He eyed it skeptically, like he did many of her dishes. Bilba wasn’t sure if it was out of distrust towards her or doubt towards her talents. But he took a bite, chewed, and then nodded curtly. 

Because she was _sooo_ desperate for his approval. 

Bilba knew she should have cared for his opinion. Her life hung in the balance. But she was always tempted to put prunes in her pastries, just to see their reaction. 

Bombur continued to stuff himself, and Bilba went to work on the next batch. Dwarves wandered in and out, grabbing a cookie when Bombur wasn’t looking. But then one entered, and just stood there. 

He was the tallest of the dwarves, with a thick beard and fur shawl and a permanent scowl. He reminded Bilba of a bull, but for the life of her she couldn’t remember his name. 

“I get the next batch,” he growled suddenly. Bilba nodded obediently. Bombur’s head whipped towards him so fast he could have gotten whiplash, and the redhead’s dark eyes met the warrior’s. A silent battle raged, Bilba praying that it would stay silent and not wreck her kitchen. The very air was tense in suspense. 

“Excuse me, gentledwarves?” Bilba piped up respectfully. They both cocked a brow at her. She swallowed. “This batch won’t be ready for another half hour, but after that I was going to make some pumpkin cakes. One for each of the company.”

“And?” the warrior snarled. Bilba still caught his eyes widening at the mention of her cakes. 

“Well…” Bilba fisted her apron nervously and took a deep breath. “I know you all like my desserts, but I could certainly make them faster with a little help…” 

“You expect us to help you?” the dark dwarf growled at her. “Cooking is your job, woman, not ours.” 

“I know! I know!” Bilba clarified. “I wasn’t expecting anything. I’m just saying that if you’d like your cookies sooner, and aren’t doing anything, I could show you how to make them.” She glanced at Bombur. “I’d be happy to share my recipes.” 

The dwarves shared a look. 

Damn cookies. 

\------------------------------------------------------

Thorin strolled around the hobbit market, boredom long since set in. They were a plain people, almost quaint in their utter lack of riches. There were no gold or jewels to be found in the entire village! Thorin had never seen anything like it. On one hand, they seemed so pathetically powerless and unimportant he could easily pull out his forces and never have to think or worry about the hobbits for the rest of his life. On the other hand, he also wanted to burn the entire place to the ground until it was nothing but black ash and laugh at the people’s complete helplessness. 

He wouldn’t mind keeping the lass, however. Her pumpkin cakes were surprisingly addicting, though Bombur had assured him they were free from poisons and potions. Perhaps, if he did call Smaug to raze the place, he’d keep her alive to watch. The hobbit-lady was stubborn despite her soft appearance, but the dragon-fire would break her. Thorin grinned at the thought. 

And yet, if they destroyed the place, she’d have no reason to serve him. The lass would hate them more than ever, taking her own life before giving them anything. No, the conqueror wanted the thief happy. 

At least until he got what he really wanted. 

When he returned to Bag End, expecting a large and delicious dinner (if the hobbits had any talent, it was for food), Thorin was in for a shock. 

There, in the hobbit lass’s kitchen, were two of his company. At first, nothing seemed remiss. They were both scowling as usual, large knives in their hands. And then he noticed what they were doing. 

“Thank you, Master Bombur,” Bilba’s voice cut in, rather joyfully. “Now all we have to do is mix in the cinnamon and nutmeg and we’ll be ready to bake!” 

Thorin stared at the small woman, as she showed an alleged-cannibal and one of the most feared warriors in the world— _his right hand_ —how to bake. She had just closed the oven when he spoke, low and dark. 

“And just what is going on here?” he sneered, just loud enough for them all to hear. Bilba jumped in surprise, the others turning towards him. Bombur looked a little anxious about being caught, but Dwalin was as stoic as ever. Bilba blinked at him, eyes wide. “It is your job to cook for us, hobbit, not the other way around. Do not beg for their assistance because you cannot keep up,” he snarled. 

Bilba swallowed, forcing herself to not make a sassy comment. Thorin stalked towards her, and Bombur began to back away, though the warrior stayed by her side. 

“She didn’t beg.” 

“What?” Thorin’s attention snapped to his guard. 

“She didn’t beg,” Dwalin answered. “She offered. She knows this place is boring and dull, and that the cakes are your favorite. She wanted to appease you.” 

Bilba’s heart pumped hard in her chest. What the warrior said was somewhat true, but not entirely. Did he really think that? Or was he knowingly lying? More importantly, would Thorin believe him?

“And you two just volunteered?” Thorin questioned. Dwalin shrugged. 

“The lass has got good recipes. Bombur wanted them.” 

“And you?” 

“Got the cookies done faster.” Dwalin's voice was as steady as a stone, and carried no emotion whatsoever. Bilba wasn't sure if she should be comforted or frightened by the fact. 

Thorin gazed at his soldier, his loyal-to-the-death, by-his-side-no-matter-what warrior, who had crumbs in his beard. 

And he believed him. 

“Fine,” he growled. “But no more helping. She can learn to work faster.” 

Dwalin nodded, and Thorin strode out of the room. Bombur was in the corner, inhaling cookies. 

Bilba stared up at the dwarf, stunned. He looked down at her, a neutral frown across his face. Neither said anything. 

When the pumpkin cakes were ready, he got the first one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments always welcome.


	10. Twisted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin has plenty of bark for his bite.

Thorin was no fool. A conquer could not act like one and succeed. He knew how people acted, how people thought. He understood how different races’ minds worked. Years of practice had taught him well. 

If he had to choose a favorite conquest, it would be Rohan. The Men there were noble, strong and fair. They had put up a good fight. Unlike a few other kingdoms he could mention, the warriors of Rohan respected their enemies, no matter their size. 

While Thorin had no moral ties to mercy, he understood the political power of it. Humans were rebellious and proud, but they could bow as long as they weren’t forced to their knees. He had granted Rohan’s people mercy after their king’s surrender, and they had followed him willingly. 

But if Thorin had to pick a conquest he most enjoyed? Oh, that would be Mirkwood, without a doubt. He had entered the forest with a diplomatic council, knowing that if this was his first step to power, he best make it carefully. The elves, of course, laughed at him. “No dwarf could be a king of elves,” they said. “You would be dead before you hit the ground, if you tried.” 

Thorin had grinned then, and when he returned to the mountain, Smaug was ready. 

The dwarf laughed at the thought. He had seen the elf king’s face when the dragon burned his palace to ash. It had been a glorious moment. 

The Shire, however, was quickly climbing the ranks of his conquests. Thorin had forgotten that there was a race smaller than dwarves. If there was one thing he hated, it was having to look up at the people who bowed to him. It was nice, looking down at someone. And the hobbits! So accepting and malleable. An entire community versed in agriculture. He could take them wherever they were needed, to starving villages or his army’s current locations. Thorin was growing fond of them, in a manipulative sort of way. 

And who could say no to him?

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

Late one night, Bilba sat in front of fire, her nephew sleeping soundly in her gentle arms. Frodo was the picture of peace, snuggled up in a small blanket. She didn’t get moments like this too often anymore, just her and her boy. The fire crackled and the loud snores of the dwarves were muffled by doors, and things seemed quite comfortable, when she didn’t let herself think too hard. 

Because she worried about Frodo, and the other hobbits. Few knew the dwarves’ real goals and were simply adjusting to life with the invaders. She alone saw their evil, and she was alone in her fight against it. 

It made her heart hurt. 

But perhaps most dwarves weren’t as awful as the ones she had met personally. Bilba had not heard of any violent actions against the hobbits, nor of any other serious grievances. Hobbits were not normally unruly, and the dwarves saw no reason to instigate them. 

But Bilba heard footsteps in the hall. 

She pulled Frodo closer, slowly sliding to the far end of the couch. Hopefully whichever dwarf it was, he was just looking for a snack. 

Bilba was not so lucky. 

It was Thorin. 

He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching her. She kept her eyes on the hearth, focusing on her nephew’s quiet breathing. But Thorin entered and sat down on the other end of the couch, his eyes lingering on Frodo. 

“Can’t sleep?” he asked neutrally, glancing at her. 

“Just not tired yet.” 

He gazed at her for a second longer, before turning his gaze to the fire as well. Bilba was tense, the hair of her neck standing straight up. What did he want? 

Apparently, nothing. The conqueror just rested there for some time, and she slowly relaxed. 

“May I ask you a question?” she said softly. 

“Yes, though I may not answer,” he said, not dropping his powerful attitude for a moment. 

“Well, I know you know that Gandalf spoke to me, but I wanted to ask about something he said…” Bilba watched his face, cautious of his temper. “Gondor?” she continued. “Why do you not have Smaug destroy it?” 

Thorin’s brows knitted together angrily, and his mouth bared its teeth in frustration. 

“The people of Gondor are far better prepared for war than their fellow Men,” Thorin scowled, though more at the world than her. “Years of being near the orc stronghold have taught them well. Their kingdom and castles are carved from the very stone. If I sent Smaug, he could burn their fields and pastures, but they could flee to the interior of the mountain and last on their stores for months. And I would much rather take a kingdom intact than in a pile of rubble.”

Bilba’s mouth formed a small ‘o’ in surprise. She had thought Thorin had more control than that. But Gandalf had mentioned that dragons were proud. Why would a dragon leave his gold unless it was certain he would get more? Smaug was Thorin’s partner, not his pet. He would not do everything Thorin demanded. 

It was odd that such a thing made her feel better. 

“That’s…interesting. But I was also wondering, how did you defeat the elves? I mean, a dragon is a formidable enemy, but the Lady Galadriel…” 

Thorin snorted. 

“I didn’t have to defeat her,” he said with a smirk, “Just show her there was no point in fighting.” Thorin smiled, cold and cruel, and Bilba shivered despite the fire. “The elves have some prowess in fighting, but they are cowards at heart. After Smaug razed Mirkwood and Lothlorien, there were so few elves left that they decided to abandon Middle Earth. Those still living are all marching west, so that they may sail away. They see the world as too dark to save, and are heading for the only salvation they can find.” 

“So the Lady Galadriel…?”

“Negotiated the agreement. She and the other elven warriors will not cause any harm to my forces, and I will grant them peaceful voyage.” 

Bilba’s shoulders sagged. Gandalf had mentioned that the elves had been ‘defeated’, but not this detail. They were leaving? Just letting Thorin conquer the other races? She had once thought the elves majestic and noble creatures. She had run through the forests as a child, hoping to find them. This…this was disappointing. 

“Surprised, hobbit?” he asked. 

“More by the fact you granted them mercy,” she answered, unable to hide the snark in her tone. 

“I just wanted the elves out of my hair. They do not deserve to live in this world. Whether by dragon fire or dwarvish sword or their own choice, as long as the elves are gone my goals are met.” 

Bilba just ran her fingers through Frodo’s curls as he slept. Her mother had spoken well of the elves, that they were wise and caring. Perhaps they were wise enough to know when to give up. 

“I am certainly surprised at you,” Thorin said quietly, “when I have been nothing but the picture of mercy since I arrived.” 

This time, Bilba openly glared at him. 

“You put a knife to my nephew’s throat,” she growled. “You beat me and made me your slave. You are nothing but merciless!” 

“You attacked us first,” Thorin argued lightly, looking rather amused, “and you and your people are alive and unharmed. I could have this entire community crushed in a matter of hours and lose nothing because of it, and yet you are still here. What do you call that?” 

Bilba clenched her jaw, but could not silence herself. 

“Savagery.” 

Thorin only smiled. It was quite funny to him, seeing this woman rebel against him while he could snap her neck with one hand. 

“Perhaps our cultures have different perspectives on such things,” he offered. “But answer this. Is it savagery to unite all the kingdoms that have warred endlessly for centuries under one flag? Is it savagery to create such a strong military force that people may never fear the threat of orcs or goblins ever again? Is it savagery to help my people rise to power when we have been stepped on and insulted for millennia? Ms. Baggins, dwarves and hobbits may have large differences, but we can all understand the frustration of being smaller than others. Men and elves have ridiculed us, massacred us, and oppressed us since our very creation. I am just trying to give my people the respect they deserve.” 

“All out of the goodness of your heart, I suppose,” Bilba sneered sarcastically, bitterly. “You murder and torture out of love, oh how did I not see it before?” 

“We all have bias, Ms. Baggins,” Thorin said. “Especially your wizard. Perhaps you should consider the situation a little more objectively.”

Bilba pulled her gaze away from the dwarf. His ice-blue eyes were piercing and unnerving, and she didn’t like the way he seemed to be making sense. A tiny voice of doubt was rising in her head against Gandalf, but she squashed it. No, Thorin was lying. He was trying to get in her head the way she was trying to get into the dwarves’ hearts. Thorin was a monster, a conqueror. She would not believe a word he said. 

And yet…

Thorin rose from his seat and looked down at her. He was very regal, she had to admit. Strength in every movement and confidence in his words. He was as charismatic and he was cruel, and maybe that’s why he had been so successful in making others surrender without resistance. 

What a bastard, a very Tookish voice whispered in her head. What an aggravatingly-attractive bastard. 

His eyes slid to Frodo, and Bilba pulled him closer, tensing again. 

“Have no fear, Ms. Baggins. As long as you hold up your end of the bargain, no harm shall come to you or your people.” 

“And if I do not?” she asked, barely a whisper. Her chest felt hollow just thinking about it. A dark smile crept up his face as he stepped closer to her. 

“It would be such a tragedy, I admit, an angry mob of Men killing a tiny, innocent hobbit lady. Even the most peaceful of creatures would want revenge for such an act,” Thorin said, his voice dripping with sarcastic sorrow. He moved to her side, and though she leaned away from him, she could not stop him from running his own fingers through Frodo’s curls. “He is a fit lad, even at this age. He would make a talented warrior and spy for the Durin crown. Able to sneak into anywhere, kill anyone without making a sound.” 

Bilba trembled at the thought. No! They couldn’t take her boy away, they couldn’t turn him into one of them! She wouldn’t let them! 

“It would take years of training, of course,” Thorin continued, “But soon he’d be able to get into Gondor and avenge his poor, fallen aunt.” Bilba had had enough. She stood up and backed away from the conqueror, a burglar holding her most precious treasure. “Kíli may have actually been right,” Thorin chuckled coldly. “He does look like a hobbit-version of me.” 

Bilba turned on her heel and fled to her study, her nephew in her arms, and did not come out until the dwarves started demanding breakfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any ships you'd like to see? I can't really imagine any others for this story, but if you can think of how they would fit, comment!


	11. Worse Than Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bofur.

She had touched his hat. 

His. Hat. 

Bofur had once impaled a Man with a blunt spoon for just staring at his hat. 

But no. Thorin wanted the hobbit alive and able-bodied. She had a purpose. A job to do. 

But when she was done and no longer needed, Bofur was going to rip the curls from her head. 

\------------------------------------------------------------

It was a sunny, beautiful day in the Shire, as most were, and the brothers and cousin Ur were sitting out on Bag End’s front bench. They were carving, smoking, relaxing. The march across Middle-Earth had been enjoyable, but tiring. Even Bifur agreed that the rest was welcome. 

A few young hobbits were strolling up the lane, glancing at them curiously. Bofur stared back when he caught their eyes, but all-in-all he wasn’t too interested. Bofur was crazy, not petty. 

“Excuse me, Master Dwarf?” one lad asked. The dwarves glanced at him, his reddish curls spilling over his eyes. “Do you know if Frodo can come out and play?” Bofur shrugged and flicked a thumb towards the door. At first they had all been annoyed by the young hobbit’s comings and goings, but they knew he could do no harm. It was better than him being underfoot all the time. So the little lad rushed up to Bag End’s green door and knocked, as the two other children gazed at the dwarves curiously. 

“What are you making?” a little girl asked softly, staring at Bifur’s little creation. It was odd, how her eyes had just moved past the axe so easily. Most hobbits would either resolutely not look near it, or be caught staring. The little lass acted as if it was no different than Bofur’s hat. 

Bifur blinked at the girl, and beckoned her forward. He wasn’t much for words, but he could spin the little handle on the wooden bird, which caused its wings to flap. The girl gasped as her eyes widened.

“You all be careful now!” Bofur heard Bilba yell from her door as the first boy and Frodo went running down the steps to the other children. Bilba sighed, shaking her head, but followed their path carefully. She was carrying a plate of cinnamon buns, and offered them to the dwarves. Bofur and Bifur each took one. Bombur took the plate. 

The other kids were heading down the lane, but the girl was still sitting by Bifur. It always struck Bilba as odd that she liked him the most. He wasn’t kind or nice or polite, but he wasn’t mean. He wasn’t cruel or sadistic or irritable. Bifur was passive. Quiet. Peaceful. He even helped clean his own dishes. The little hobbit blinked at the toy longingly, but stood to leave. Bifur caught her shoulder before she moved. They stared at each other a moment. 

Bifur handed her the toy. 

Bilba and Bofur watched as the girl’s face lit up, and she jumped up and down, thanking him. More than that, she wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him. Bilba and Bofur’s jaws dropped. 

Bifur didn’t react so much, just patted her on the back and gently pushed her towards her friends. She ran after them, excited about her new gift. 

Bilba couldn’t believe it. 

“That was…very kind of you, Bifur,” she said cautiously, unsure of how he’d take it. The dwarf shrugged, but Bilba would swear she saw a tiny smile beneath his beard. 

Bofur snorted. 

Bifur rose from his seat and headed back into the smial. Bombur followed, likely for the casserole he could smell from the kitchen. Bilba and Bofur were left alone. 

The dwarf had to stop his hand from twitching. 

“You are the only one I don’t understand,” Bilba said suddenly, sitting down next to him. He went back to carving, stubbornly ignoring her. She continued anyway. “I see why Thorin acts the way he does, why he became what he is. A king wanting a bigger kingdom. It makes sense. The other warriors followed, seeking power or riches. I can guess how they may have become desensitized to violence, and then came to enjoy it. It’s disturbing, but understandable.” Bilba tried to stop her voice from shaking, taking a deep breath and looking out over the Shire. “Dori, Nori, and Ori came because they were talented, Fili and Kili to please their uncle. And I would guess that you and your family came for a chance at something better.” 

Bofur didn’t respond. He kept carving. He was not sure what he was making, but he just let his fingers go where they wanted. 

“Bifur’s accident could leave mental damage, and explain why he is the way he is. And if Bombur really was trapped in the mines as a child, then it’s not a stretch to say that such a trauma would leave long-lasting scars. But for the life of me,” Bilba said, “I can’t imagine why you are like this.” 

“Like what?” Bofur scowled, finally responding. 

“Angry,” Bilba chose, because she couldn’t think of anything else that fit. “You carve toys and smoke your pipe and seem like a perfectly happy person. And then I see the look in your eyes and know there’s nothing you’d rather do than rip me apart.” 

Bofur disagreed. He could think of many things he’d rather do, things that would be slow, involving his carving tools and his mattock…

“I know you hate me. I’m sorry for what I did,” Bilba said solemnly, “But I don’t know what I can do to make up for it, because I don’t understand you.”

Bofur paused, staring at his creation which is beginning to look a lot like a little girl. Bilba waited. 

“This hat was my father’s,” he said, not looking at her. He didn’t know why he was talking. Maybe it’s because he knew he could kill her later, so it wouldn’t matter. Maybe he just wanted to talk to someone. 

“I’m sorry,” she apologized, and he shook his head. 

“He was a drunk bastard that deserved what he got,” Bofur replied darkly, with such coldness that Bilba turned to him in shock. “He beat us like dogs. Mam, me, and Bombur. I’ve still got the scars.” 

And Bilba had seen them. But she had thought they were from battle. 

“One night he came home, angry and violent. Mam tried to protect us, but he just got angrier. When he hit her, she didn’t get back up.”

Bilba’s blood ran cold. Now she got it. 

“Bombur and me were hiding, and he came searching. Bombur ran out, tried to get to Mam. This was before his accident, so he’s as loud as any bawling baby, trying to wake her up. Our Pa storms over, starts wailing on him. So I grabbed his mattock.” 

Bilba was scared, but curious now. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to hear the end of this story. 

“Bastard didn’t even hear me coming, so I just…brought it down. That was the end of that, and Bifur adopted us a week later.” 

“I’m so sorry, Bofur,” she whispered, “All those years…no one should have to go through that.” 

Bofur shrugged. 

“Doesn’t matter. He got what he deserved. But now I know why he did it, at least.” 

Bilba blinked at him. 

“Why?” 

Bofur slowly turned towards her, his frightening, manic grin spreading across his face. 

“Because it feels good! Hurting other people, having that power, there’s nothing like it.” 

A shiver shook Bilba’s spine

“There are other ways to feel good, Bofur,” she said quietly.

“Yeah? Like what?” he grinned doubtfully. 

“Giving gifts, being kind,” she explained, “Reading, writing, carving. You can find hobbies that don’t hurt anyone, or even help people! You remember how much your father hurt you, so why would you want to cause that to anyone else?” 

“Because it’s fun,” he answered, and strolled back into the smial, whistling a tune until the door shut behind him. Then he didn’t need to pretend in front of the hobbit anymore. He stomped to his rooms and shut the door, sitting on the bed with his hat in his hands. 

That damn hobbit. 

Damn that hobbit! 

Making him remember that night, tricking him into talking about it…that wench. Pretending that she cared. Acting so nice and kind and gentle that he actually felt warm for a moment. Like there was a chance someone actually cared about him.

Stupid hobbit. With her sparkling green eyes and her aggravating honey curls and her ridiculously soft-looking skin. She was going to die. She was going to suffer and cry and he was going to enjoy it and—

No. He wouldn’t. 

It was like a wave of water hitting him. That realization. Suddenly he knew that he wouldn’t enjoy her pain. 

That little lass, who cared so much for her adopted nephew when his own father had treated him as less than dirt. That hobbit lady, whom they had beaten and forced into servitude but never raised a hand against them or said a rude word. That Bilba Baggins, who genuinely wanted to know why he was such a monster, and wanted to help him be a better person. 

He glanced down, at the little carving in his hands. 

Bilba Baggins, without a doubt. 

It was like a punch in the gut. 

Because now he needed to protect her. It wasn’t Thorin trying to stop him from hurting the hobbit anymore. It was him trying to stop Thorin from destroying her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who do you guys want to see next?


	12. Mine. Not Ours.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fíli and Kíli spend time with the burglar.  
> Shit starts getting real.  
> Thorin gets a little scarier.

Unlike the other members of Thorin’s company, Fíli and Kíli would not describe themselves as evil, violent, or utterly malicious. They were fun lads, honestly! Fíli was a loyal nephew and prince. He listened and learned, and was always reliable. Kíli was a happy lad, always good for a laugh or a game. 

They had been raised in war, and thus violence and savagery were commonplace. Normal. 

And they had never been given a reason to think otherwise. When they had warred against elves, their enemies had been precise, cunning and deadly. The Men they faced were angry and filthy. Wherever they went, war was all they saw. All they knew. 

Until the Shire. 

The Shire, where the most dangerous thing was a runaway cart. The Shire, where the only ‘weapons’ to be had were farming scythes and trowels. The Shire, where your enemies invited you over for tea and asked where you had gotten such a delightful hair clasp. 

They didn’t know what to make of it. 

Fíli and Kíli weren’t worried. They never worried. Nothing could stand in Thorin’s wake, and no warrior had ever come close to killing either of the brothers. 

The lads were…disoriented. Confused. 

But curious. 

They wondered why the hobbits always met them with standard waves or greetings, rather than fearful groveling. They wondered why fathers wagged a finger at their daughters when the girls smiled at them, rather than rushing them away to safety. Fíli and Kíli wondered why Bilba hadn’t put nightshade in her cooking, when it was so good the brothers were already addicted and would eat anything she put in front of them. 

It was a freakish world, the Shire, with gentle people and pretty hills, and Fíli and Kíli were lost. 

But they couldn’t tell their uncle. 

They could never tell their uncle. 

Lacking confidence was possessing weakness, and Thorin did not tolerate anything less than stone in his warriors. Not that anyone did. 

Fíli and Kíli couldn’t admit that they were lost, just like they couldn’t admit that they missed their mother, who was ruling Erebor in Thorin’s absence. Neither could they voice their loneliness, as two of the only three young members in the company. And they certainly couldn’t say how much they loved Bilba’s cooking. 

Or her kind demeanor. 

Or her rebellious little attitude that they admired quite a bit. 

Fíli and Kíli were loyal. They were strong. They were thick-skinned.

And nothing was going to change that. 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was some weeks after the dwarves’ invasion (some said ‘attack’, others ‘capture’) that Fíli and Kíli found themselves in a pickle. The brothers were supposed to be collecting intelligence on the Shire’s inner-workings, or the possibility thereof. Thorin would not underestimate even the most timid of enemies, and was determined to know if the hobbits were planning anything. Fíli and Kíli, being younger and less battle-scared, were chosen out of Thorin’s company to go talk to the Halflings. 

This sounded like a bad idea to many, and it probably was, but it wasn’t like Dwalin would get much out the Shirelings without blood being spilled. 

The first thing Fíli and Kíli learned was that hobbits did not appreciate being called ‘Halflings’. They were not half of anything, and most were nearly as tall as the dwarves. So you can stick that in your pipe and smoke it. 

After they figured that mess out, Fíli and Kíli were welcomed, quite warmly by the Tooks and Brandybucks, who were just as curious about dwarves. The hobbits fed them and talked all about their pleasant village, and the brothers were convinced that the most adventurous thing any normal hobbit did was run off into the forest once or twice as a child. 

The Bagginses were a much harder sell. The dwarves had to wipe their boots on the mat and figure out which fork was the right one for each course before the hobbits told them anything. But again, once the Shirelings decided the dwarves were just there out of honest interest (which they weren’t) the Bagginses were happy to tell all. Gossips were a Shire constant, and every family had a few. 

This continued with the Proudfeet (That’s Proudfoots, Master Dwarf), the Gamgees, the Bracegirdles, and the Goodchilds, until Fíli and Kíli were very, very sure that there was nothing sinister being plotted by the hobbits. They were innocent, friendly and talkative, and always had food to spare. 

Fíli and Kíli liked the hobbits very much. 

They told their uncle and companions that you could probably learn everything about a hobbit in a month. 

Bilba knew that after a hundred years, that same hobbit could still surprise you. 

In fact it had been exactly a month after the dwarves' ~~invasion~~ ~~attack~~ ~~capture~~ _arrival_ , that Fíli and Kíli grew bored with the Shire, and decided to spend some time with their resident burglar. 

By then every dwarf knew her well. Bilba was stubborn but gentle, fiery but sentimental, clever but exploitable. She was an excellent chef, a talented gardener, and a nifty thief. For all intents and purposes, they believed they had her figured out. 

Bilba was washing dishes at the time, sighing at the monotony of her days. She wondered if her little plan would ever work. Fíli and Kíli, noticing her frown, strolled over and started poking at her dishes. 

“Why do you paint your dishes?” Fíli asked in confusion. “We simply line them with jewels.” 

“And you barely have enough tankards for the lot of us!” Kíli added. “The only cups we use in the mountain are tankards.” 

Bilba explained hobbit culture to them, from the lack of gems to the smaller, though larger in number, portions. The lads got bored after a while, as they tended to. 

So they began to juggle her plates. 

Bilba watched in horror, shaking with worry for her mother’s china but too small and powerless to stop them. She kept washing nervously, praying that nothing shattered. The lads laughed gleefully as they sang and tossed, too caught up in their game to check each thing they picked up to throw. 

Kíli accidentally snagged Thorin’s pipe. 

It went flying, out the window and into the muddy puddle outside. 

All three froze. 

“Bollocks,” Kíli cursed seriously. “Bollocks. Bollocks. Bollocks.” 

“Ideas?” Fíli asked quietly, internally considering that a run would be pleasant at this time of day. Bilba sighed. 

“Just bring it here. I’ll clean it,” she said. They both spun to look at her. 

“What?!” Kíli sputtered. He didn’t entirely care about the hobbit’s safety, but her statement was still a shock. 

“Thorin doesn’t let anyone touch his pipe,” Fíli warned. Bilba debated telling him explicitly how she stole the conqueror’s pipe just a few weeks earlier, but held her tongue. 

“I’ll just tell him I cleaned it. I clean everything else you dwarves own. He won’t care.” 

Fíli and Kíli shared a look. What did they have to lose? 

That night, they watched (from a safe distance) as Thorin searched for his pipe, just to have it handed to him by the tiny woman. They expected him to strike her, to curse her or her nephew. He didn’t. 

Thorin smirked. 

First making him pumpkin cakes and now cleaning his pipe? He had the little lass wrapped around his finger. 

At least that’s what the conqueror thought. 

Bilba just went back to her duties, tidying the smial before going back to her own nephew. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

The next day, Fíli and Kíli didn’t leave her side. 

They weren’t exactly helpful, but they asked questions and made jokes and talked about their home, Erebor, and Bilba found them to be a decent distraction. Nori let them take over her training for the day, and they tutored her in how to face multiple enemies at once. Amazingly, she left the two-on-one sparring match with fewer bruises than she’d ever gotten from Nori. 

And that evening, when Bilba’s temper was straining, they let her vent at them. She never said a word specifically about the dwarves, merely their effect on her life. How a stain had been particularly hard to get out of some trousers, or how the plumbing was backed up again. In fact, the only name she did mention was Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, whom the brothers did remember as the hobbit-lady who let Bilba’s cat out of its bag. Bilba had some pretty coarse words for her cousin, and the brothers took note. 

They had a favor to repay. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------

Some days later, after searching out just who the woman was and where she lived, Fíli and Kíli greeted their host with ecstatic joy. She was perplexed at first, but at their cheery grins she let her shoulders relax. They were dangerous, but they were boys, and she’d done nothing to attract Thorin’s ire lately, so what did Bilba have to fear?

“We got you a present!” Kíli bounced excitedly, pulling a brown sack out from behind him. Bilba stared at it for a moment, having trouble imagining what the lads would possibly have gotten her. 

Then she saw it. 

The dark, moist patch at the bottom of the bag. 

Bilba’s blood ran cold. 

“Ta-da!” Fíli and Kíli shouted in unison, pulling the present out of the bag. 

Lobelia’s head. 

Bilba fainted before she had a chance to scream. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

A rough hand brushed her curls behind her ears. 

She was lying on something soft. 

Mixed voices rang around her, blurry and confusing. 

Everything was a haze as her consciousness began to return, bits and pieces sticking out, others disappearing. 

“—in an uproar!” 

“What were you—“ 

“I hope she—“ 

“—no more cookies?” 

There were angry voices and scared voices, deep and high and squeaking and roaring. Nothing made sense. 

“Ff-frodo…” she whispered. Where was her nephew? The voices rose in volume, then quieted, until only one was heard. 

“Auntie Bilba?” the tiny hobbit lad murmured fearfully. Bilba smiled, his pink face coming into focus. She opened her arms and welcomed him in, resting there as the dwarves began to file out. Her mind was still dazed, time seemed to be slowing and speeding, but she remembered one deep, deep voice whispering to her just before darkness claimed her. 

“Rest now, little burglar.” 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

When she awoke fully, some hours later, she could hear the conqueror’s yelling through the smial. Frodo was clinging to her, frightened by the rage radiating from the sitting room. Bilba blinked. 

She sat up, scanning the room. 

It was (what was now known as) Thorin’s room. 

She was in Thorin’s bed. 

The implications sent a shiver down her spine, but she couldn’t feel any pain, and the bed sheets atop her were neatly pulled. She rose from the bed, tucking Frodo back in. He didn’t need to see this. 

Bilba slowly stepped out of the room, and found Bofur sitting in a chair in the hall. 

He smiled at her. Warmly. 

“How are you feeling, lass?” he asked quietly. 

“Shaken,” she answered, as honest a reply as she could find in her sleepy state. Bofur nodded but his smile dimmed. 

“Well, you can hear Thorin as well as any of us,” he said, gesturing down the hall. “He’s giving the lads a right disciplining for what they did. Not quite sure myself if they knew what they were doing, but Thorin’s certainly not happy.” 

“Why does he care?” Bilba said bitterly. Bofur shrugged. 

“He may be a fighter, Ms. Baggins, but he knows when it’s not necessary. Our king was hoping for a peaceful time here, and thought he was getting it until now.”

“I can’t believe they did that…” Bilba muttered, shaking her head. “They seemed like such nice boys.” 

“They are, when they like you,” Bofur explained. “We’re dwarves, lass. Possessive and protective. They thought they were doing you a kindness.” 

“This is my fault,” she said, feeling foolish and far too tired. “I was telling them how mad at her I was. I should have guessed how they might take it.” 

“Bilba, lass, there’s no way you could have known that—“ Bofur started, but she was already heading towards the source of the yelling. 

The dwarves were packed into the sitting room, Thorin in front of the fire with the lads standing before him. A few noticed her in the doorway, but most were too distracted by Thorin’s fury. 

“Did you two even think for a moment what your actions might lead to?!” he roared. “Do you know what you’ve just caused? The first colonizing effort with no risk to dwarven lives has now vanished because of what you did! The hobbits are outraged! You fools are unfit to be princes.” 

Fíli appeared to be taking it better than his brother. The blond was still as a statue, facing forward unflinchingly but submissively. Kíli breathing was tense, a slight tremor here or there. Bilba prayed that it was the fire dancing in his eyes, rather than the beginning of tears that made them sparkle. 

“Pardon me?” she spoke softly, but drew the entire company’s attention. Kíli’s jaw was clenched, a lot like Thorin’s fist. “Is there any way you could do this another time?” she pleaded, “It’s getting pretty late.” 

Thorin let out a deep breath. 

“I’m afraid these matters need to be seen to immediately, Ms. Baggins. The boys disobeyed one of my direct orders, and even princes must face punishments.” 

“What order?” she questioned curiously. Thorin, for the first time, hesitated, like he did not wish to tell her. She waited. 

“To not harm the hobbits, unless physically provoked.” 

Bilba’s brows jumped, but she held in her pleased voice. 

“So what is the punishment supposed to be?” she asked tentatively. 

“For a normal soldier, it would be higher, but as these are my nephews, they are only sentenced to thirty lashes each.” 

Bilba’s heart stopped. 

Thorin would do that? To his own family? 

(Bilba thought she should be asking for more, considering it was her cousin that had been beheaded, yet that wasn’t her main concern at the moment.)

Thorin would, and Bilba knew it. 

The sitting room was silent for a moment, the sentencing sinking in amongst the company. Kíli looked like he was about to break down. Fíli looked…dead. Resigned. 

“Please don’t,” she whispered. Every head snapped to her. 

“What?!” Thorin nearly yelled. Bilba sighed. 

“There has been enough bloodshed today,” she explained softly. “The lads know what they did was wrong, and they’ll be facing the ire of every hobbit from now on. Whipping them won’t change that, or bring Lobelia back. I am asking you, Thorin Oakenshield, as the cousin of the murdered woman. Please don’t.” 

The dwarves stared at her, shell-shocked. 

“Do you think you speak for all hobbits, lass?” another dwarf asked. Balin, if she remembered correctly. 

“Hobbits aren’t the vengeful sort,” she answered. “I would think they just want your absence, not your blood. We don’t care for such punishments. They’d be more repulsed by such a thing than pleased by it.” 

Balin shared a look with his king. That lass spoke the truth. Not a single hobbit had asked for either of the boys’ heads. They just wanted them out. 

Thorin crossed his arms. 

“I can assure you now, hobbit, that none of us are leaving. But if the hobbits would find it distasteful, then we can temporarily forego the usual punishments.” Fíli and Kíli watched their uncle, stunned silent. He turned to them. “You two will relinquish your weapons for the time being and spend your days inside this smial. You are not allowed to leave until my decree. Dismissed.” 

The lads nodded frantically, and quickly strode out of the room, followed by the other dwarves, until only Thorin remained. Bilba would have been tense, but she was far too sleepy. 

“Your easiest chance at revenge, and you go out of your way to prevent it,” Thorin breathed, sounding inquisitive, or maybe befuddled. He was difficult to read. “Why is that?” 

“I don’t want revenge,” she replied, remaining still even as Thorin approached her. “I want peace. Gardens do not grow from bloodied soil.” 

“Yet dragon ash makes excellent fertilizer,” Thorin retorted. Bilba shrugged. It wasn’t worth arguing right now. She had spared Fíli and Kíli. Now she just had to pull Frodo out of Thorin’s bed (which would be a damn challenge since it was very comfy) and go back to sleep in her bedroll. 

“Why did you make that order?” she asked. Maybe there was a little spirit left. 

“A simple calculation,” he said, sounding honest, thought who could tell. But Bilba nodded acceptingly. She’s probably never know for sure. 

A calloused hand on her cheek snapped her to attention. 

Her green eyes stared up in shock, meeting his icy blue ones. 

“And yet for all my calculations, you still manage to surprise me, Bilba.” 

His voice was smooth, deep, almost serene, but the hobbit could hear the chilling tone under it. Her pulse was jumping, and suddenly she felt like she could run across mountains. Her chest was tight and heated. 

She was scared. Just scared. 

Not at all stirred by the conqueror before her. Nope. Not a bit. No fire was inciting in her belly, thank you very much. 

“Perhaps I should try a more thorough investi—“

“Oi, hobbit!” Bofur’s voice cut in from the hall, and Thorin’s snatched away from her face. He took a step back, barely containing his scowl. Bofur’s head appeared in the opposite doorway. “Did you get the last load of laundry folded? I’m a little low on tunics.” 

“Oh, I’ll show you where I put them!” Bilba said, jumping at the opportunity to escape. “Right this way.” She walked right past Thorin, straight to Bofur and down the hall to the laundry room. 

Thorin was furious. 

Bofur was relieved. 

Bilba was very, very worried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's next?


	13. Pins and Needles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay, folks. I hope to have another chapter out sometime this weekend. The plot is starting to take off and I'm looking forward to writing it.

The hobbits were furious. 

Such a violent crime hadn’t been committed within the borders of the Shire since the Fell Winter. Some were too shocked to know what to think. Hobbits did not have much experience with crime and punishment. They knew about thieves and such petty things, but murder was something left to horror stories. A hobbit killing another? It did not bear thinking about. 

So with no precedent or justice system to speak of, the only reprimand the hobbits could possibly agree on was exile. They wanted the dwarves out. 

For so many weeks they had pondered the dwarves’ stay. Some had abided it, some had been irritated by it, but only a small handful had really worried about it. Now all could see the danger of their warrior houseguests. 

Some thought that only the two killers deserved banishment. Many of the dwarves were polite, if forceful people. Over the month they had stayed in the Shire, friendships had been made. The dwarves cherished children and the hobbits had plenty. The hobbits had good food and the dwarves were always happy to taste-test. Most dwarves, however cold and stoic they appeared, were nice-enough people. 

And hey, they were short. 

But the point remained. The hobbits knew something needed to be done, but they had no power to speak of. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

Ori, the young scribe, was a curious lad. He relished learning, and would often be found rifling through the library of whatever place they had most recently conquered for days. He was not the greatest fighter (and no one ever let him forget it) so he focused on strategy and cleverness. Knowledge was power, after all. 

Not that he would ever call himself weak, of course. He was skilled, no matter what the warriors joked. His brothers were protective because they were family. Not because he couldn’t defend himself. 

Right?

Ori reminded himself once more that just because he could fight, it didn’t mean he was invulnerable. Any dwarf could be wounded. And he was a good-looking lad, so his brothers were there to make sure no dwarf tried anything! 

He sighed as he set his quill down. Thorin had said he could use the hobbit’s study as a writing space. Even though they were pausing in the Shire to wait for Nori’s informants to get back to him and for the hobbit to be ready, he still had to keep up his writing. There was a great tale to be told! 

The lad had debated how much of the lass’s thievery should be included, though. Her crimes were a sign of weakness in their king, but finally catching her was proof of his power. Ori tapped the quill against his cheek. Quite a conundrum he had. 

Not unlike the burglar herself, actually. Small, delicate, and younger than even he, yet she had stolen the King’s Jewel! How was it possible? 

How could someone so small, so weak, do something so amazing? 

Ori would never dare say it out loud, but if he was honest he would have to admit that he was a little inspired by their tiny hostess. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

Bilba did not have time to fret over the dwarves’ stay. That’s all she’d been doing, and it hadn’t gotten her very far. At least Thorin wasn’t trying to kill off hobbits. Judging by the reprimanding the lads got, it seemed like no one would be harming any of the Shire-folk for a while. That’s what she told herself anyway. 

But she had chores to do. While most of the hobbit heads-of-family tried to figure out possibilities, Bilba patched the company’s clothes. Their garments were worn, though high-quality, and Thorin had ordered she fix them. Bilba lounged in the sitting room, boredom setting in as she closed yet another hem. 

“Could you teach me to do that?” Bilba jumped at the voice and spun to see who it was. 

Ori, as quiet as a mouse, was standing in the doorway. 

“Of course,” Bilba said automatically, unable to refuse any of the dwarves’ requests (a fact she tried to not think about). Ori moved and sat next to her, and she leaned in to show him. “It’s pretty easy to pick up the basic stitches. You just have to think about how you’re connecting the two sides. Just watch out for the needle.” 

“I’m not some soft-skinned lass!” he snapped. Bilba’s brow jumped and she averted her gaze back to the thread. 

“My apologies, Master Dwarf,” she said submissively. “Just force of habit. You dwarves have much thicker skin than we hobbits.”

She didn’t need to offend the dwarves. They were already riled up enough. 

A moment passed silently. 

“My apologies,” he whispered quietly. 

That surprised her more than his temper. She stared at him with wide eyes for a moment. 

“I mean… I just…” he stuttered, “My brothers are always like that. Saying I need to be careful about every little thing.” 

Bilba blinked at him, gauging for a moment, and took the opportunity to explain the stitch she was using in more detail. Ori, thankfully, relaxed. 

“My father was protective of me too,” she said later as she handed him some cloth to practice. “My mother was a bit adventurous, but he was always saying to watch out for this and that. Quite annoying. My mother always laughed it off though. I suppose it was his way of condoning such behavior,” Bilba chuckled. “Come to think of it, when my mother taught me to sew it was only to know in case I ripped my skirts while running through the woods.”

“I never met my mother,” Ori replied flatly. Bilba bit her lip, but the lad continued. “She died giving birth to me, so Dori raised me. Our father, well, fathers, weren’t around much, so we took care of each other. But they’ve always treated me like the child.” 

“I’m sure it’s because they care, Ori,” Bilba replied carefully. Ori shrugged. 

“I just wish they could see that I am stronger than they think.” 

The lad seemed tired as he talked about it, like it was a sad but unimportant idea. Bilba’s head tilted as she thought about it. That had never been her situation. Her mother had always pushed her, and she was an only-child. 

“You don’t have to be strong, Ori. You just have to know your strengths.”

The boy glanced up from his needle and thread, confusion painting his face. 

“For one, you’re very polite,” Bilba explained. “You asked if I could teach you, when any other dwarf would have made it an order.”

“Dori said I had to respect my elders,” Ori said quickly. 

“And I am younger than you. Not to mention that you can read and write brilliantly. You were hired to record Thorin’s journey at such a young age.”

“Just because Dori and Nori didn’t want to leave me alone…” 

“And you can knit, obviously, which is more useful than anyone gives it credit for.” 

That made the lad pause. 

“You think so?” he asked, disbelieving. She nodded confidently. 

“Would you like to hear a story, Ori?” Bilba asked, smiling. He nodded slowly. “When I was a tween, a terrible winter fell upon the Shire. The river froze and orcs and wolves were able to make their way into our land. When people tell the story, they always talk about how violent and deadly those monsters were. But I will let you in on a little secret,” she said with a somber, sidelong glance, “It was the cold that killed the most.” 

Ori listened religiously, soaking in the tale with undivided attention. 

“We hobbits are not used to the cold. We are creatures of the spring flowers and summer fields and autumn harvests. The winters here are easy, chilly at the most. But that season was different. That season, hobbits froze in the streets.” 

Bilba forced her voice to stay steady, building the suspense of the story. It wasn’t something the hobbits spoke of often, but she imagined the scribe would be raptured by it. She was right. 

“We had never had a need for warm clothes and hated shoes for generations. When the Fell Winter came, nobody knew what to do! Except for one person. My mother.” The lass smiled to herself, granting herself a moment of pride. “She had traveled in her youth and knew how to knit. She spent days knitting scarves and sweaters and hats for us all. Knitting saved more lives than any sword that season.” 

Ori stared, stupefied by the idea. 

“I am aware that your talents are not the most common amongst dwarves, Ori,” Bilba said, “But you are clever and talented and versatile, and believe me, that is a force like no other. Now let me see your stitches.” 

The lad handed them back to her and she beamed approvingly. The lad was a quick learner. 

“Never mistake strength for power,” she added knowingly. “There is a thin line between them, but it can make a world of difference.” 

At least Bilba hoped it could. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------

Ori and Bilba did begin to spend more time with each other. Bilba shared her books and stories of hobbit life while teaching him more sewing secrets, and in return Ori told her of the lands they had seen and the people they’d met. Both were very pleased with the newfound friendship. 

Thorin, not so much. 

But even with a few of the dwarves being amiable companions, Bilba still enjoyed having time to herself. It was luxury only found when she had to go to the hobbit market for food. With thirteen dwarves staying at her smial, Bilba bought everything in bulk and had to borrow the Gamgee’s cart just for the trip. 

It was on one such shopping venture when she happened by the book-seller. It was a small shop, but always well-stocked and Bilba decided to see if they had anything Ori might like. The lad was growing on her, whether she liked it or not. A dwarf she could relate too? She hadn’t imagined she’d ever meet one. 

She also hadn’t expected to have a hand clamped over her mouth the moment the door shut behind her, and to be pushed behind the counter and the curtain beyond it, to a small space full of hobbits. 

Bilba only struggled for a second in surprise, before calming herself. This was a shock, but not a frightening one. Not yet anyway. 

She stared at the assembled Shire-folk for a moment before one stepped forward from the table in the center of the plain room. 

Laura Baggins. Her grandmother. 

Bilba cocked a brow in question. Laura sighed. 

“Yes, well, it might not have been the subtlest invitation but we wanted to speak with you,” her grandmother answered. 

“About?” Bilba asked dryly. The wide array of hobbits in the room was odd. Young, old, rich, working; they crossed the spectrum. But what were they all doing here?

“We have an idea,” Laura said quietly, “about what to do in result of the dwarves’ actions. You know their leader best, as well as the two who…” 

She didn’t finish. She didn’t have to. 

“We want to know if you would join us, perhaps lead us if you could.” 

Bilba gazed at the hobbits around her. Sad, scared, but resilient. The other races had always called hers weak and unimportant, but Bilba had never backed down from defending them. But now…

“I can’t,” she said mournfully, and more than one head snapped up in surprise. Even Laura looked confused. “When I was hiding, I…angered their leader. That’s why they make me serve them. If I disobey, or were to rebel again…they might hurt Frodo.”

A few hobbits gasped in shock and Laura’s eyebrows jumped in silent horror. Who would threaten a child?!

“I can’t be a part of whatever you’re doing directly, but if there’s anything else I can do to help I would be happy to,” Bilba added. 

Her grandmother pursed her lips. The older hobbit would never risk a child’s life, but they needed all the help they could get. 

“You must promise me that you’ll say no if you don’t wish to do this,” Laura demanded, knowing her granddaughter’s loyalty. Bilba nodded and her grandmother sighed. 

“We may need a little time to get organized before we start,” Laura said vaguely, just in case. “The dwarves might notice us moving around unusually. If you were able to distract their king long enough for us to get mobilized, it would certainly be a boon.” 

Bilba sucked in a breath as a shiver ran down her spine. 

Distract their king. 

She swallowed hard. 

“I can do that,” Bilba said firmly, but even she could hear the fear in her voice. 

“You don’t have to,” Laura repeated.

“But I will,” Bilba answered. “Just give me the date and time.” As they fed her the details of their plan, Bilba forced herself to think of ideas for what she could do to sidetrack the dwarf, and tried to ignore the nausea and fear knotting in her stomach. 

She could do this. 

For her people. 

And maybe for the dwarves as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts?


	14. Blood From A Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit gets real again.  
> And maybe Thorin isn't as stone-cold as he thinks...

Just half an hour. 

That’s all the hobbits needed.

All Bilba had to do was keep Thorin distracted and away from any officer who might report the hobbits moving about. 

Just half an hour. 

Simple. 

Right?

\--------------------------------------------------------

Bilba tried to stop glancing at the clock. 

She was just finishing cleaning the dishes from dinner while the dwarves rested around the smial. Most were beginning to relax. The hobbits had calmed down and it wasn’t like the halflings could do anything, so what was the point in worrying? Some of the dwarves felt bad (and were a little shocked by it) for what the lads had done, but there was no point in crying over spilled blood. 

Unless you were speaking of a battle-cry, but that wasn’t very relevant in a village of farmers. 

So most the dwarves fell back into their patterns, smoking and chatting and laughing over old stories. Frodo was absent, ‘staying at a cousin’s house tonight’. 

Bilba hoped that their nonchalance would play in her favor. She needed every ounce of luck she could get. Sure, some of the dwarves were warming up to her, but plenty of the older ones were still suspicious. Would they ever trust her after tonight?

But when the clock struck seven and the sun began to dip below the horizon, Bilba went to find Thorin. He was in one of the halls with Dwalin and Balin, talking softly. 

“Thorin?” she asked quietly. All three turned to look at her, the brothers each with a brow cocked at her informal greeting. Thorin was calm as ever, serene in his complete confidence. They stared at her silently, and suddenly Bilba wished she had a few more layers on than just her usual blouse, vest, and skirt. 

“Yes, halfling?” he answered, and a little angry spark jumped in her chest at the thought of a dwarf calling her half of anything. 

“Can we talk?” she asked neutrally. “In private?” 

This time Thorin raised a brow. But he gave a curt nod and gestured to one of the doors in the hall, quietly dismissing the others. As Bilba walked past, Balin met her eye with a distrustful look. Dwalin appeared stone-like, but the hobbit lass was sure she caught a hint of worry in his eyes. 

“See that we are not disturbed,” Thorin ordered and the dwarves nodded. They both walked away swiftly as Thorin entered the other room, Bilba following him nervously, slightly regretting asking for privacy. 

It didn’t help that Thorin had chosen his bedroom for their meeting. 

“So what is so important and private that you wished to speak with me, hobbit?” he asked with a hint of amusement. 

Bilba took a deep breath. She just had to keep him talking. It didn’t sound too hard. 

“I want to know what will happen to the hobbits, after Gondor.” 

Her heart was skipping like a stone, and the butterflies in her stomach felt like dragons. She needed to stall Thorin, but she also wanted to know a few things, and the thought of what the answers might be did not soothe her worried soul one bit. 

Thorin was silent for a moment, and actually looked thoughtful. The lantern’s light from the bed stand painted his skin gold, but the shadows of his features were stark and dark. The last of the sunlight was fading to dusk and the air was cooling. Bilba’s chest felt fearfully hot, but her skin was tingling from the chill. 

“They will remain as one of my colonies, though some may be moved to assist others with their skills.”

“What?” Bilba gasped. It was a far cry from the worst she’d thought might happen, but she hadn’t expected this at all! “You’re going to move us?”

“Not all,” he shrugged, though it seemed to matter little to him. “But your people have talent in agriculture few others have, and your crops cannot be shipped to where such resources are needed without rotting first. I think having a few in Dale and Erebor would be a boon to our fields, and any other cities with failing plains would benefit as well.” 

Thorin spoke clearly and easily, sounding relatively fair compared to his other decrees. He watched her, waiting for a response. He got one. 

“But you can’t do that!” she almost shrieked. “This is our home! You cannot just kidnap hobbits and force them to work where you wish. You’ll tear families apart and we may never see them again!” 

“So you would rather let others starve?” he argued. Bilba shook her head. 

“No! But there are plenty of books in the Shire on farming that you could give away instead, and we can happily send seeds without fear of losing food. But taking hobbits out of the Shire is like taking a fish out of water!” 

“They would be treated well and cared for,” Thorin said. 

“They would be slaves,” Bilba said bitterly, glaring at the ground. Fists clenched, Bilba wondered if punching his jaw would hurt her more than him. Still, the little fire in her heart would feel a little sated. 

“Is there anything else?” Thorin asked, sounding bored. There was an air of finality around their previous conversation, and Bilba knew there was no point in trying to fight about that anymore. But she had a few other ideas. 

“While I’m in Gondor, who will take care of Frodo?” she tried to ask coolly, but her ire was still evident. “The other families cannot care for him. When his parents died I took him in because the other clans had too many children or too little resources to give him what he needed.” 

“Then I suppose he will be spending some quality time with my company,” Thorin replied. 

Bilba sighed. There wasn't much she could do to change that. 

“And when I get back?”

Bilba watched him carefully, though his face had been mostly unreadable, but the corners of his lips curled up just a hair at her question. He was always so stoic and grave, but she was starting to prefer that to his smiles. They were frightening, a harbinger of bad things to follow. 

“I have a few ideas,” he said, voice dripping with sinister pleasure. He made a small step towards her, and Bilba had to stop herself from flinching or moving back. She could not appear intimidated, for all that her mind was screaming to run. “You could stay here of course, with your nephew, but I don’t know if I could leave my gracious host to such a lonely existence.” Another step forward. His form was massive compared to hers, thick muscles wrapped in armor and furs. Bilba had never felt smaller. “You could go help other villages with farming, aiding starving children and sparing some cousin of yours from leaving their family. Though that would mean laboring in the fields, and you are such a gentle thing.” Another step forward. 

He was near her now, not within her personal space but close enough to whisper and be heard. 

“There is a third option,” he murmured lowly in his deep voice, sending a shiver down her spine from fear (and maybe something else Bilba really didn’t want to think about right now). “I do have a liaison from each of my colonies living in Erebor. An ambassador of sorts. You have proven your ability to live amongst dwarves, and we already have such a wonderful understanding…”

His blue eyes felt piercing even as they darkened. Thorin moved closer to her, looking down into her green irises that were desperately trying to hide her fear. 

“You would have your nephew at your side and your people protected, and all you would have to do is—“ 

“He said he didn’t want to be interrupted!” Dwalin yelled from down the hall, making Bilba jump. 

“But Thorin really needs to see this!” they heard Fíli shout. 

“Yeah, outside, the hobbits are coming this way!” Kíli added. 

Bilba’s blood froze in her veins. She felt winded and the hair on the back of her stood up. Somehow, she managed a glance at Thorin, and winced immediately. 

She had seen Thorin angry. This was him enraged. His eyes darkened for a far different reason as he glowered at her for a moment, clenched fists and jaw promising pain later. 

“You will regret this, hobbit,” he growled quietly, the intensity of his words like a stab to the gut. Thorin had been tricked, but now he knew it. He brushed past her stormily and headed towards the lads’ voices. 

“Fíli! Kíli! What is going on?” he roared as Bilba ran after him.

“We saw them through the window, uncle,” Fíli quickly clarified. “There are over a hundred of them! They’re all carrying candles or lanterns or something and headed this way!” 

“Pitchforks and torches, more like,” Dwalin growled. “Guess they finally had enough.” 

Thorin stomped towards the front of the smial, the other dwarves joining him as he strode, and Bilba fought to reach him. She pushed through the crowd as they headed through the front door, catching Thorin’s arm. 

“Thorin, please, you have to understand—“

“Would you look at that?” Bofur exclaimed as many of the other dwarves gasped. 

Across Hobbiton and heading up the hill, as Fíli and Kíli had claimed, were the hobbits. More than any of the dwarves had ever seen in one place. They were marching together, young and old, rich and poor, up through the paths. All had flower chains in their hair and many carried extras in their arms while others held candles and lanterns to light the way. 

It was a stream of flickering gold that the dwarves watched, and not just the company. Many of the warriors who guarded over the night were out at the edges of the path, tensed and curious, calling to their brothers and sisters in arms. The hobbits passed by them un-phased, only stopping to hang a flower crown in the dwarves’ hair or on their helmets. If a dwarf pulled back the hobbits moved on, but others farther down the marching crowd tried again. The hobbits carried on peacefully, solemnly, towards Bag End. 

Thorin stared in anger and confusion. What in the bloody Halls of Mandos were these creatures doing?

The younger hobbits, too small to reach the dwarves’ heads and not old enough to trust with fire still walked along with their parents and cousins, picking flowers and handing them to the dwarves who would take them. The soldiers were too stunned and baffled to do much but watch the procession, sheathing the weapons they had taken. Some of the braver hobbits even hung the flowers on the dwarves’ weapons and shields. 

None of the company moved for a long time, the silence in the village far too powerful. Only as the crowd neared (now streamlined to one or two hobbits at a time because of the slender paths) did Thorin speak. 

“What is the meaning of this?” he asked, affronted, as the first hobbit in line became recognizable as Laura Baggins. 

“It is a vigil, Thorin Oakenshield, and a protest. We lost a dear cousin and friend a few days ago, if you’ve forgotten.” She didn’t stop moving as she spoke, continuing down the path and lighting the way with a lantern hanging from her hooked walking-stick. “We are forgivers, Master Dwarf, not fighters. The flowers we have symbolize that, though you may not know our flower language.” 

Thorin snorted. A bull insulted by a teacup. 

“The white tulips symbolize forgiveness and the holly are for happiness. We know times are tense now, but we hope for the best. Good evening.” 

And the elder hobbit walked on, the others trailing after her down the other side of the hill. Thorin glowered at them, making Bilba’s heart thump, and he turned to his trusted right-hand. 

“Dwalin. Stop this.” 

“Thorin—“ Bilba gasped, as she tried to clutch at him but he grabbed her arm in an iron vice. She met his eye, all of his prior humor replaced by indignant fury. But as Dwalin opened the gate and stood in front of the oncoming train of hobbits, both their brows jumped. 

The hobbits did not stop. 

Dwalin took up most of the path on his own, not even bothering to take out his axes because his tattoos, muscles, and demeanor could make other warriors turn on their heel. But not the hobbits. They skirted around him swiftly, ducking under his arms and even between his legs, and the more audacious tweens even draped flower chains on his wrists and axes while he was distracted. 

Thorin resisted the urge to roar. He should have just massacred these wretched farmers! He seethed and nearly forgot Bilba was there until he squeezed her arm so hard she whimpered. His eyes snapped to hers, watching her gulp in fear for her people. 

“Get inside. Everyone,” he ordered, dragging Bilba along with him. The other dwarves quickly followed, Dwalin tearing off what chains he could reach and throwing them to the ground. 

Back in the smial, Thorin hauled Bilba back to his room while the other went back to their previous places. Thorin pushed Bilba inside and slammed the door closed behind him in one swift motion, and the pushed her against the wall with his hands tightly gripping her shoulders. 

“I _told_ you if you ever rebelled again you would pay,” he snarled. 

“I didn’t,” Bilba argued quietly. 

“You kept me here while your foolish clans organized a rally against me!” he roared. Ears throbbing and hands trembling, Bilba tried to remain calm. 

“It was just a march, Thorin, for Lobelia! And I couldn’t have kept you here if you hadn’t wanted to stay!” 

Thorin’s hands tightened on her shoulders, assuring bruises the next day. But suddenly he released her, turning his back with a scowl. 

“You halflings need to learn your place in this world. Bowing to your king.” 

Later, Bilba would suppose that this was the straw that broke the oliphaunt’s back. 

“We don’t _have_ a king,” she growled darkly. 

Thorin spun so fast his hair flew for a second. 

“What did you say?” 

“Hobbits don’t have a king,” Bilba answered again, building momentum. “We have a Thain, chosen by our people. We have heads of our clans, chosen by the eldest members of the family. We have food and music and love and everything that we need. But we don’t have a king. We don’t have to bow to you or obey you or listen when you say what our place is. You are not our king, Thorin Oakenshield, so stop acting offended when we don’t pretend to be your loyal citizens.” 

Thorin stared in shock as Bilba's breathing calmed from her rant, her face reddened in rage.

And for a second, neither moved. 

Then Thorin stormed towards her and Bilba did not budge an inch, until they were nearly chest to chest and Thorin had to stare down at her. Not intimidated by the size difference (or at least not showing it) Bilba glared up at him. 

“Do what you want to me, dwarf,” she huffed at him. “It will gain you nothing.” 

Thorin, naturally, already had plenty of ideas of what to do with her. He could throw her into his bed or have her head on a pike or make her watch as they disemboweled her nephew. She could be killed, tortured, imprisoned, starved, and he could watch every minute. 

But he wasn’t thinking about that. 

He was thinking about this woman, fully grown but barely up to his chin, who had the nerve to not only rebel but to do so defenselessly and knowing her death could mean nothing. Here was a tiny burglar willing to steal the most precious treasure of a conqueror in hopes of bargaining with him. With gold hair and emerald eyes and ruby lips, this tiny lass rejected every notion of material value and replaced it with good cheer and forgiveness. She behaved honorably in the worst of situations, loyal to not only death but torture as well, and had a heart willing to risk her own life for another’s. 

He…

He needed to get away from this woman. 

Thorin grabbed her arm again and this time lugged her to the basement door, shoving her down the stairs and barring the door. 

Perhaps a night in the cold would freeze the fire in her. 

And chill the tiny, disgusting warmth he was beginning to feel in his heart. 

Thorin stormed to the kitchen, his wavy mane disheveled and his teeth grinding. Where did that wench keep the ale?!

Bilba, down in her basement, easily found the wine rack. She needed a drink. 

She curled up in a corner to fight the cold, now wishing more than ever that she had worn more layers. 

But the hobbits had gotten their movement, without violence or callous words. Thorin did not seem like he would hurt them for it, though Bilba expected there would be backlash in some form or another. Dwarves had a knack for holding grudges. She sighed to herself and took another sip. 

It could have been the wine that brought the smile to her face in the darkness of the basement (which wasn’t all that bad seeing as it was a hobbit basement and it was only the end of summer), but despite all the stress of the night, Bilba couldn’t help but grin. Thorin’s grip had been harsh, but there was no lasting damage. 

Thorin hadn’t hurt her. 

Thorin hadn’t hurt _anyone_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would I be begging for comments if I said I love them like Dwalin loves cookies?


	15. Strong as a Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dori's turn.  
> TW: Implied/Past sexual harassment. 
> 
> This isn't a violent chapter, but it isn't exactly a happy one.

As it turned out, there was very little Thorin could do in retaliation of the march. 

Making an example of one or two hobbits would only make the situation worse, and there was nowhere to imprison any of them. He considered setting a curfew, but all the hobbits were in their smials before dark. A tax was impossible because most of the hobbits grew their own food and could support themselves, not to mention how much of the dwarves were now being fed on the crops. Thorin wanted to punish them for their insolence, but his options were limited. 

He sent out an order to his soldiers of course, telling them to keep a better watch on the halflings and report any unusual behavior. 

But there wasn’t any. 

The hobbits went straight back to their normal lives the morning after. They didn’t pretend that nothing had changed, but none were angry or rebellious or cold to the dwarves. 

Thorin’s behavior towards Bilba, however, changed dramatically. 

He no longer met her eye with a prideful smirk or sinister glint. In fact, he barely met her eye at all. All forms of banter or back-and-forth were replaced with indifference and suspicion. He didn’t avoid her or ignore her, but it was as if she wasn’t a factor any more. From what she had seen, it was as if his interest had completely dissipated, and it worried Bilba more than his sword had. 

Bilba had been able to use Thorin’s fascination with her to her advantage, but if he suspected her then her future endeavors might not be so successful. 

Bilba felt like she was back to square one. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

It was nearly a week after the march when Bilba found herself alone in Bag End with only Dori for a sitter. The others were out doing who-knows-what but Bilba was grateful for the quiet. Dori was much more peaceful than the other dwarves, preferring reading over rambunctiousness. 

She had just finished her chores when there was a knock at the door, which both she and Dori went to answer. 

Bilba was to be supervised at all times and never be left alone with other hobbits. Thorin’s orders. 

The hobbit lass was keenly aware of the powerful dwarf standing behind her as she swung the circular door open. Standing on the stone steps was Rory Brandybuck, uncle to Frodo. He looked a little nervous about his current situation, but gave her and Dori a friendly nod. A handsome hobbit, he was a few years older than her and would most likely be head of the Brandybuck clan when his father passed. He and Bilba had been friends growing up, both adventurous and fun-loving, but as she grew up alone, he was bombarded with younger brothers and sisters and gained a lot of responsibility. Rory and Bilba were still wonderful friends, but sometimes she wondered what would have happened if they had spent more time together. 

“Bilba, how are you doing?” he asked politely. In the crook of one arm was a basket of what looked like tea bags and biscuits, and Dori eyed it suspiciously. 

“I’m doing well, Rory,” Bilba answered plainly, albeit confusedly. “And yourself?” 

“Good, good,” he said quickly. “Just came by to see how you were doing and give you this.” He held out the basket for her and she cocked a brow. “No one has seen you at the Market for a while,” he explained softly. “We thought you might like something to calm the nerves.” Bilba nodded and took the basket as Dori watched them both with squinted eyes. 

“Thank you, Rory,” she said, because she really hadn’t had a nice cup of tea in a good long while. 

“Think nothing of it,” he said, “I’ll be off then. You have a good day, Bilba. Master Dwarf.”

And he was off. 

Both Bilba and Dori watched the hobbit stroll down the road, before Dori snapped his head to the lady. 

“May I see that basket, Miss Baggins?” he growled. It wasn’t a question. She gave it up willingly and headed back inside. She had a kettle to boil. 

He entered the kitchen a few minutes later, poking at the teabags, and snorted. 

“If you hobbits think you can poison us with tea you’re bigger fools than I thought,” he sneered. “A gift basket, really?” 

Bilba rolled her eyes. 

“It’s not the first Rory has delivered,” she said. Dori’s brows flew to his hairline and his mouth formed an ‘o’ of surprise. His gray eyes flicked between her and the basket and he began to nod with supposed understanding. 

“I see,” he said awkwardly, pursing his lips. Bilba nearly giggled at the idea of what must have been running through his head. 

“It’s not like that,” she clarified. “Rory’s a good friend, a cousin by marriage, but those sorts of gifts are mostly in thanks.” Dori’s mildly befuddled look prompted her to continue. She picked a few of the bags to try and poured two cups of hot water. “He always felt guilty for not being able to take care of Frodo. When I took the lad in Rory said if I ever needed anything, all I had to do was ask. Of course, I’m rather well off, but it’s never stopped him from dropping by every once in a while.”

Dori appeared to find it odd, but said nothing. 

“What flavor would you like to try?” Bilba asked, hoping to change the subject. He gazed at the bags apprehensively. How were there so many types? 

“What would you recommend?” he replied. Etiquette was a trade too, and Dori was very talented at saving face. 

“Well, the cranberry is always good,” Bilba decided, “but the Brandybucks have a mean Green tea. There’s almond, walnut, blackberry, raspberry, strawberry, blueberry, or Earl Grey, of course.” She began to rifle through the basket more. “Oh, he also packed some ginger root and ginseng! I tend to go for something with a bite to it on an afternoon, like the cider-y ones or the cinnamon tea, but if you want something smoother there’s peach or vanilla. Adding honey to any of them certainly never hurts if you like that too.” 

Dori stared at her, dumbstruck. 

“There’s also chamomile,” she added with a small smile. He nodded anxiously and took the cup gratefully, now needing it to soothe his nerves. So many flavors! He never realized the possibilities! 

She poured the water in both their cups and they sat down companionably. Dori was a reasonable dwarf in Bilba’s eyes. Not too violent, not too crazy. Dangerous, naturally, but amiable. Relatively anyway. 

They sipped in silence, enjoying the serenity. 

After a while, Dori spoke, “Ori says you’ve been getting him books from the local seller.” Bilba nodded. “And I noticed your study has many as well. Are hobbits avid readers?” 

She shrugged her shoulders. 

“Some more than others,” she agreed, “but I’ve loved reading since childhood. I’ve also got plenty of maps if your brother is interested.” 

Dori didn’t reply at first, staring into his teacup. 

“And you hobbits see nothing wrong with it?” he asked quietly. 

“Wrong with it?” she gasped, sounding taken aback. “Why would anyone see anything wrong with reading?” Dori sighed. 

“Among dwarves, I suppose, it is seen as a weaker trade. They say those who can, do. Those who can’t, scribe. I knew Men were different, though not all even have the opportunity to learn how to read or write.” 

“That’s terrible!” Bilba exclaimed. “Reading and writing are profound skills! They spread ideas, knowledge, everything! How do dwarves see it as weak?” 

“Because many do not see it as ‘hard work’, Miss Baggins. Forging metal, carving gems, being a warrior, those are respected skills.” Dori shook his head. “Ori has great talent but so few value it.” 

“I’ve read some of his work, Master Dori,” Bilba said. “Your brother has a gift.”

Dori’s eyes snapped to hers, surprised and perplexed. 

“Writing is no easy thing. I know that better than most. And for Ori to be so skilled at his age it is astounding! Any hobbit would be amazed by his work.”

“You truly do not see it as a lesser path?” he asked. Bilba shook her head. 

“All paths are equal, Master Dori. All a person can do is choose which he is the most passionate about. Obviously Ori is both talented and brave enough to do so.” 

Dori smiled to himself. 

“I can see why the lad likes you, Miss Baggins.” 

\-------------------------------------------------------------

Dori and Bilba began to speak much more often after that, discussing their cultures’ differences. He found the lass quite charming, a pleasant companion in the midst of such raucous housemates. She was genuinely kind to Ori and witty at that, but always polite. 

Nori was a little irritated at their growing closeness. He was trying to train her to be a cutthroat spy while Dori would steal her away during training sessions to ask if honey or sugar went better with ginseng tea. 

Dori never asked about Rory or the gifts again, deciding no one else needed to know. Her explanation was plausible, though Dori didn’t take her words as perfect gospel. If the lad was interested, Dori would pity him if Thorin ever found out. 

And Thorin. 

He made Dori sweat some days. 

The other dwarves had noticed Bilba and Dori’s new habit of spending time together and had said nothing. Thorin certainly hadn’t said anything, but Dori saw his eyes, even if Bilba didn’t. 

Whenever Bilba wasn’t looking, Thorin was watching her, and Dori saw the desire there, the dwarvish possessiveness. The conqueror wasn’t angry at the tea-maker, but he was definitely still engrossed with their hostess. If Bilba knew then she was very good at lying, but Dori believed she was completely oblivious to Thorin’s lingering gaze. 

And it made Dori’s heart twist. 

Because he was loyal, so loyal to his king who had given him and his brothers the chance they’d never had. Dori had been a middle-class tea-maker trying to pay for Ori’s apprenticeship. Nori had been in and out of prison. Their life was far from royal. But when they pledged their loyalty as his trusted soldiers Thorin had welcomed them. The king didn’t have to treat them with the same respect as his cousins, but he did. He didn’t have to bring Ori along at Dori’s request, but he did. The conqueror could have forced Dori and Nori and Ori to do whatever he wanted, but he didn’t. 

Thorin had been kind to the Ri brothers, when so many had been cruel. 

Their fathers had left them. Their cousins abandoned them. And Dori was not so foolish to think that it was his tea that brought so many customers to his shop. He was a handsome dwarf, and though he was disgusted with the idea of using his looks for money, it had brought in the coin that they so desperately needed. 

Thorin made sure his soldiers were in line so that Dori never heard those catcalls again. 

But now the stares that Thorin leveled at their hostess were reminding him that their great leader wasn’t perfect. 

There was hunger in those ice-blue eyes, and Dori didn’t like to think about what he was hungry for. A new conquest? Did Thorin want Bilba's blood or her body? Sometimes Dori thought that Thorin himself might be unsure. But the tea-maker had lived in the dirtier boroughs of Erebor long enough to distinguish curiosity from want, and the memories still sent shivers down his spine. 

How many dwarves had propositioned him? How many had tried to not take no for an answer? 

If there was one thing in the world Dori could thank Mahal for, it was his strength. He could lift an ox and crush a skull with his hands, and that was the only reason he was still so pretty today. And why Ori was too. 

But this little hobbit woman, what defense did she have? She never lifted a finger against any of them, never disobeyed (Dori was still internally debating whether Bilba talking to Thorin during the march counted), and she couldn’t, not really. Her nephew, her people, her home, and her own life were at stake. If Thorin demanded something of her, Bilba could not say no. 

And as desensitized to gore and death as he was, that thought still horrified Dori. 

Bilba, a hobbit thought she was, reminded him so much of himself. She was beautiful, in an exotic sort of way, managing to be beardless without looking like a child. She was well-spoken and witty, polite and level-headed. She was caring for a child that was not hers, like Dori had Ori when the youngest brother’s father ran off after their mother died. Bilba smiled in the face of adversity and remained calm when she must surely be disgusted. 

But Bilba was a good person, a kind and gentle soul. She deserved to be happy. What god decided that she should have to suffer this, when Bilba should have been living happily with another hobbit, like that Rory fellow, possibly having children or raising young Frodo in peace? Why was fate cruel to the innocent?

And Dori couldn’t help but think she had a few things in common with Ori as well. Small, underestimated, perhaps physically weaker but with a brilliant mind. Both Bilba and Ori were facing bullies and dealing with them, and it made Dori feel unusually protective of the lass, though he knew he’d be seen as a traitor if he ever spoke so much. 

He was a little surprised that Thorin had not yet forced the woman into his bed. Their king had never taken any lovers, willing or otherwise, during their campaign. Maybe it was against some policy of his. Or perhaps Thorin did not want to instigate the hobbits any further? Bilba was still in training with Nori, so Thorin could be waiting until after Gondor fell. Or until they were out of the Shire. 

Thorin could think it weak of himself to show his physical urges, especially if they were for a tiny, beardless woman who stole his prize possession, but he could have raped her and called it revenge. He could have made up any reason and no dwarf would have dared to say a word. 

So why was Thorin keeping his distance? The powerful dwarves Dori had met in Erebor certainly hadn’t, but they all left with broken bones. 

…Was Thorin frightened of her?

\----------------------------------------------------

Over the passing days, Dori began to observe the other dwarves in the company during meals and free moments. He subtly watched how they treated their resident burglar (No, not Nori, the other one.) and he was quite surprised. 

While there were a few that still remained cold to her, most were relaxed and almost sociable with Bilba. There were no more murderous looks or deadly threats. The dwarves weren’t out-rightly friendly with her, but Ori shared a smile with her when they passed books to each other, and Dwalin gave a thankful nod when she pulled a new tray of cookies from the oven. Bifur and Bilba had become a dish-washing machine together, perfectly in-sync with each other’s patterns. Nori no longer sneered at her, and Fíli and Kíli might as well have been puppies in her lap. 

And Bofur! 

Bofur, the psychotic, sadistic, blood-lusting dwarf Dori had been scared to let Ori near was essentially Bilba’s chum! She laughed at his jokes and he helped carry groceries, and it seemed like her time was split solely between chores, Dori, and Bofur. It was astonishing! 

But Thorin still looked like a stalking predator. 

And for the first time in a long time, the strongest member in the company felt very, very weak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oin and Gloin next.


	16. Treating Illness and Preventing Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay, had family visiting. Black Friday, man. 
> 
> So Oin is a cranky bastard. Gloin is a loving father.   
> And Bofur is adorable.

Oin and Gloin seemed like a sensible pair of fellows, as far as Bilba could tell. They were calm, steady-headed dwarves. Nori had mentioned that Gloin was short-tempered, but Bilba had yet to see any proof of that. They were certainly older than most of the others, and much more traditional from what Bilba had seen. But they also appeared rather agreeable to start with. Oin was a healer, someone who had sworn to prevent harm, right? Bilba knew he could fight, but surely his main purpose was to mend the company members. And Gloin was a father! While Bilba had never been the audience to one of his long tales of his lad (which the other dwarvs said she was quite lucky to be) she had heard them in passing more than once, and he was obviously a doting father. A man capable of so much love had to have good in him, as buried or isolated as it might be. 

Bilba had not spent much time with either, but the brothers didn’t seem to have any qualms with her. Perhaps this would be easy.

Perhaps not. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------

The green trees of the Shire were just beginning to turn fiery with color when Bilba was given the opportunity to approach Oin. The air was cooling and the little children were jumping in leaf piles as their parents began to rake in their bountiful harvests. Though hobbits grew crops from spring through autumn, the fall harvest was always the biggest by far, in preparation for the winter ahead. 

Unfortunately, Frodo’s playing landed him with a twisted ankle after a particularly high jump. No large damage, just some pain and a few days without putting weight on it. But at the time he came stumbling into Bag End with tears in his eyes, Bilba didn’t know that. 

“Auntie!” he cried, and Bilba rushed from the laundry she had been folding without hesitation. Frodo was sobbing, sitting on Belladonna’s glory box and clutching his ankle. “It huuurts!” he wailed. 

The dwarves, hearing the pained child, shared looks in the hall. They each knew for a fact that all the hobbit healers were busy with the dwarves who had been wounded during the campaigns. The twisted ankle of a tiny halfling shouldn’t have mattered much to the warriors who had witnessed enough death for a thousand lifetimes, but most dwarves had soft-spots for children, and some of the company had grown rather fond of their resident faunt. Bofur, remembering his own painful childhood, was the first to speak up.

“Oh, poor lad,” he said, kneeling down next to Bilba who was trying to comfort her nephew. “Let’s have Oin look at him. It’s his day off, but I don’t think this’ll take more than a moment.” Bilba nodded frantically, wiping the tears off Frodo’s cheeks. She scooped him up and followed the former miner. 

“He’ll help?” Bilba asked worriedly, petting Frodo’s curls as the boy sniffled. Bofur bit his lip and shrugged. 

“Probably…” But Bilba could hear the doubt in his voice. 

They strode to Oin and Gloin’s shared room, and Bilba remembered the night she had snuck in and moved his ear horn. The dwarf had a very hard time hearing. Currently, he was no more than a mound wrapped in blankets, snoring loudly on the bed. 

“Old fogey,” Bofur said, rolling his eyes. “Oi! Healer, wakey-wakey! We got a job for ya!” 

Oin immediately shook in his covers, obviously irritated at his rude awakening. Bilba gulped. She doubted this would give him any motivation to help Frodo. The aging dwarf sat up grumbling, glaring at his intruders. 

“What is this all about?” he shouted, though due to his anger or deafness Bilba couldn’t tell. 

“Wee one’s hurt his ankle,” Bofur explained quickly. “Should I have gone to Dwalin? My sincerest apologies.” The hatted dwarf grinned laughingly but Oin’s expression didn’t change. 

“Would of preferred ya did,” the gray-haired dwarf growled, wrapping himself back up in the blankets and turning so he was lying away from them. “Is my day off, laddy,” he huffed, “and I’m not getting’ out of bed unless some dwarf is dying, and definitely not for some foolish halfling faunt.” 

Bilba pursed her lips at the ‘halfling’ comment and looked to Bofur. Maybe they should just go find a hobbit healer. Could she really trust Oin with Frodo even if he agreed to treat the boy?

“Come on, ya lazy bugger,” Bofur snapped, yanking Oin’s covers away. “You’re not getting these back until the little one’s seen to.” The miner folded his arms stubbornly, the soft blankets tucked against his chest. Bilba petted Frodo’s hair soothingly, hoping this would work. Oin certainly didn’t look too pleased. 

“Fine!” the healer shouted, sitting up in his bed crankily. “Go get me something to set his blasted ankle with and some poppy milk. Gonna need some for my own head by the end of this…” He glanced at Bilba and gestured her forth as Bofur ran to get the supplies, leaving her alone with the elderly dwarf. “Bloody kids, never stop screaming. Everyone thinks I lost my hearing in battle, but no. One lass manages to have twins and the little demons screeched like a nazghul. How in the world do people stand them…”

Bilba listened to the dwarf rant in silence, wondering if she could cover Frodo’s ears with one hand. 

“And my brother, he’s the worst of the lot! ‘My son did this’ and ‘Gimli said that’. Gloin never shuts up about the boy,” the healer growled, cleaning off a desk and letting her set Frodo on it. Bilba couldn’t tell if this was merely Oin’s grumpiness showing or if it was his normal attitude. But luckily, Bofur returned with both a small piece of wood to keep Frodo’s ankle straight and a glass of poppy milk to lessen the pain. 

“Need anything else?” Bofur asked helpfully.

“Privacy,” Oin snorted. “Miss Baggins can say to keep her lad calm but I don’t need an audience.” Bofur sighed and rolled his eyes once more before turning back towards the door. 

“I’ll be right outside,” he said, shutting the door quietly behind him. 

“Take a sip of this, halfling, while I see what you busted,” Oin yawned, handing the milk to Frodo and lifting his ankle. Frodo took a gulp before setting the glass down quickly and shaking his head. He stuck his tongue out with a gagging sound. 

“Eeewwww,” Frodo moaned, and Bilba had to stop herself from chuckling. Oin didn’t seem to notice, busy setting the wood against the lad’s leg and aligning his ankle with it, tying it down. 

“There,” the healer groaned, cricking his back with a stretch. “Done. Now keep your weight off that for a while. I don’t want to be woken up again.” While the frustration in his voice sounded to have subsided, Bilba knew it was a better idea to not test Oin again. He still looked grim and aggravated, and she didn’t like the idea of him in control of Frodo’s health. She was sympathetic; being a healer for an army couldn’t be easy or pleasant in the least. But she had expected a little bit better bedside manner from him. Perhaps it was just being stirred from his sleep so suddenly. 

Anyway, Frodo no longer seemed pained and slid himself off the table, keeping his weight on his good foot. 

“Thank you!” he cheered, limping out of the room with no lost enthusiasm. Bilba sighed with relief. Children, really. 

“Hey there, lad!” Bofur chuckled as Frodo jumped into his waiting arms. “Come on, let’s go look at my cousin’s new works!” Bilba smiled to herself as she watched Bofur heave her boy playfully, laughing as he did so. Bofur caught her eye with a knowing look and bumped the door with his hip, giving her and the healer some privacy to talk.

“I am sorry for waking you,” she said sincerely, after a moment. “I’ll make sure he’s more careful from now on. If there’s anything I can help with, I’d be happy to.” Bilba didn’t exactly have a lot of spare time on her hands, but having a friend that could tie stitches was rather prudent. Oin didn’t look at her as he spoke, cleaning up his supplies. 

“You could stop with your daft little ruse, lass,” Oin sneered. Her eyes widened a fraction before Bilba got control of herself. Swallowing, she faked confusion. 

“My what?” she asked innocently. He glared at her callously, his nose wrinkled up and teeth bared in disdain. 

“I’m deaf, halfling. Not blind. I’ve been a doctor long enough to know when someone’s faking, and the others would see it too if they weren’t too busy staring at your breasts,” he snarled. Bilba gasped indignantly. 

“How dare you—“

“Oh don’t give me that, woman,” he growled. “You may think you’re getting somewhere with your treats and your stories, but those warriors wouldn’t give two copper pieces about you if it wasn’t for your pretty face. You think you can change them?” Oin clenched his fists as he crossed his arms, ear horn crunching under his grip. “They’re too far gone, lass. That miner might play nice while you’re around, but give him a mattock and a battle and he won’t have lost any of his bloodlust. Same goes for the rest of them, you silly hobbit.” 

Bilba gulped, muscles tensed and trembling. Oin’s baton-like weapon was out of his reach, but any man who knew a body had no need for a sword. 

“Why are you saying this?” she finally asked. 

“Because I won’t have you wasting my time batting your eyes at me.” Oin rolled his eyes. “And I have no wish to delay this prophecy any longer.” 

Bilba was silent for a moment, wondering if she’d heard right. 

“Prophecy?” Bilba asked, disbelievingly. Oin huffed impatiently. 

“I have read the portents, and they have come true thus far.” He met her eyes with a stony glare. “ _‘A Beast shall come to the Lonely Mountain and make the Prince a Conqueror.’_ Smaug has made Thorin Oakenshield the most powerful person in Middle Earth. _‘The Conqueror shall make the world his.’_ Who would deny that truth? He’s taken over every kingdom but one! _‘And the most unlikely creature shall become a Burglar, and make the Conqueror a King.’_ ” Oin watched as shock crept onto the hobbit’s face. “I understand why you resisted His Majesty’s rule this long, but our fates are already written. You need to stop wasting time making pastries and start readying yourself for Gondor.” 

Wide-eyed, Bilba felt too stunned to speak. Had Gandalf known? Did Thorin know?

But Bilba squared her jaw and steeled her nerves. She wasn’t going to let it get to her. Sure, Oin saw her tricks, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t convince him anyway. 

“And how do you know I’m not making him a king?” Bilba snapped back. “You may read what the future holds but that tells you nothing of how we get there.” 

“You want me to believe Thorin will become king of Middle Earth by being polite and proper?” Oin snorted. “Turning him and his company into ‘caring’ and ‘loving’ dwarves? Thorin is a conqueror, a subjugator of the masses and the annihilator of an entire race. You couldn’t make him kind with a hundred potions. But you will make him a king.” 

“Caring and loving is the only difference between the two,” Bilba growled. “People fear and loathe him. Kings are supposed to be loved and respected.” She met his eyes darkly. “Maybe I _am_ making him a king.” 

Oin’s mouth opened for just a moment, a second of doubt whisking across his face. But he shoved it away, his face returning to its stony countenance. 

“You should give up your charade, lass. You may know how to get inside a few dwarves’ heads, but I know how much poppy milk is needed to stop pain _and_ breathing.”

“And why is that?” Bilba nearly shouted. “What happened to the oath of ‘doing no harm’? Why did you train to save lives when you so relish taking them?!” 

“I swore to save dwarven lives!” he barked. “Every elf and Man I killed is a dwarf life saved!”

“So they can go kill others?” Bilba argued. “Nothing will ever be solved with that thinking! Just more death and destruction, losing the people you care about. And for what? Gold, gems, power? What is the point?” 

Oin opened his mouth to yell, to roar at the little imp, and found himself short. 

“You can’t save innocent lives by ending them,” Bilba said solemnly. Oin’s fists clenched and unclenched, and his furious gaze cooled, losing steam. 

“The portents…” he muttered, rubbing his forehead. Oin’s weariness and age came rushing back, weighing him down. Bilba watched him cautiously. 

“I know you want Thorin to become king,” Bilba said quietly, “the others too. I don’t know what will happen, but all I want is to save those I can. I know you’ve seen some terrible things in your time. Surely you can agree the world would be better without this war?” 

“Thorin is my king,” Oin said stubbornly. “And I will do everything in my power to help him become _the_ king.” He glanced back at her, tired and worn. “But perhaps there is a way to do so without so much bloodshed.”

Bilba’s shoulders slumped, releasing a breath and relaxing. 

“Thank you,” Bilba sighed. 

They stood there for a moment, calming down. It hadn’t been the easiest argument, but probably one of the fastest. Oin seemed open-minded, however loyal. 

“Do they really stare at my breasts?” Bilba asked suddenly, blushing. 

Oin shook his head with a small smile, “No.” 

Not all of them. 

\------------------------------------------------------------

It was only later that evening when she found Gloin relaxing in the sitting room. Bilba had been about to tuck Frodo in under a blanket in front of the fire when the dwarf looked up at her, a soft smile on his face. Under his arm was a blanket, and he handed it to her with a small nod. 

“Thought you both might like an extra cover. Nights are getting colder now,” he said, looking genuinely concerned. Bilba took the blanket carefully, thanking him. It was rather surprising, and suspicious, for him to show kindness out of the blue. 

She laid Frodo down and blew out the candles, leaving the fire for warmth. Gloin sat with her on the couch for a bit in companionable silence. He took out a gold locket after a while, the two portraits within garbed in firelight. 

“Is that your wife and son?” Bilba asked, glancing at the pictures. Gloin nodded reverently, beaming at the small drawings. “She’s very beautiful.” Gloin chuckled. 

“I remember when we were in Mirkwood, one of those elves called her a horrid creature.” The dwarf shook his head. “I always forget how odd our women must look to the other races.” 

“I wouldn’t say they look odd,” Bilba said. “Just different. I may be bare-faced but her beard is obviously well taken care of. The braids are so intricate!” 

“Aye, she has a flair for that sort of thing. My son likes them much simpler.” 

“Oh, how old is he?” 

“Just a few years younger than Ori and the princes, actually,” Gloin explained. “My Gimli is a guard in Erebor, but was just a hair too young to come on the campaigns with us. He was terribly put out by it.”

Bilba thanked the gods for dwarf age-requirements. One less dwarf to deal with. 

“They’re my sun and moon,” Gloin said warmly. Bilba gazed at him for a moment. She had never seen such tenderness in a dwarf. The love for a wife and child, more than gold or power or anything the world have to offer. But then…

“Why are you on the warpath, and not with them?” Bilba questioned tentatively. Gloin sighed. 

“Duty. Thorin’s my cousin and king, and he needed my expertise with expenses. I couldn’t turn him down.” His shoulders slumped. “I’m just happy Gimli couldn’t come. I know that sounds awful from a father, but I don’t want my boy running off to battle.” Shaking his head, the dwarf glanced at Frodo. “It’s very noble, Miss Baggins, what you’re doing for that lad. Taking him in and caring for a child not your own, not everyone would. And putting up with us for his safety? Brave and tenacious. No child should be put in danger. Not for glory or riches, not for anything.” 

Bilba listened carefully, unsure of where he was going.

“Oin told me about the row you two had earlier,” he said. 

Bilba froze.

“And you’re absolutely right Miss Baggins. The world doesn’t need any more death in it.” Gloin rose from his seat, gazing down at the hobbit lass. “I am loyal to Thorin, but I’ll do what I can to help.” 

The hobbit blinked at him. He would help her? Just like that?

“T-Thank you,” she stuttered. He nodded respectfully and strode away to bed, leaving her with only her sleeping nephew for company. 

And for once, things went better than expected. 

\---------------------------------------------------------

“Hello there, Miss Baggins!” Rory greeted jovially. Bilba was in the market, hunting for some brisket. It was Gloin and Oin’s shared favorite, and not too difficult to make. Might as well lockdown the friendship.

“Good morning, Rory! How are you doing?” Bilba called back. With nearly all the dwarves warmed up to her, Bilba finally felt comfortable in her own home and spoke more freely with the hobbits. She still worried for her race, of course, but life was getting easier. 

“Quite well,” Rory answered. “We were all wondering if you’re planning to come to the harvest festival next week. You’re awfully busy but do you think the dwarves would give you the evening off?”

“The harvest festival!” Bilba gasped, having completely forgotten. “I’ll have to ask. I wasn’t sure if everyone was still going to come with all the dwarves about.” 

“They might not have been too happy last time we all got together,” he said with a knowing grin, “but this is different. Eating, dancing, all good fun. They wouldn’t have a problem with that, would they?”

“Hard to say,” Bilba sighed. “I’ll ask, anyway. What if the dwarves decide to come, to keep an eye on us?” 

“Most have already been invited,” Rory said with a small smirk. “A lot of the families said they were bringing the dwarves that were staying with them, and the rest of the clan heads and I talked to the camping ones. They’re nice people when they aren’t pointing their swords at you.”

“They are,” Bilba agreed softly. 

“Well, see if their king wants to grace us with his presence, okay? We all want to show them what a real party is like.” The hobbit lad grinned, still competitive as ever. 

And Bilba grinned too, because that sound like a very entertaining sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hobbit parties are best parties.


	17. An Immovable Object and An Unstoppable Force

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long freaking chapter.   
> And Bofur needs to stop trying to turn this into a Boffins story. Bad Bofur.

Hobbits, small and frail creatures that they were, had a great many talents. They were among the best farmers in all of Middle Earth, and were the producers of the finest pipe-weed in the land. They were patient and content folk, uncaring about the larger world while making mountains out of mole-hills with their gossip. By far, hobbits could have more children in one family than any other race, and they still managed to maintain their proprietary façade. And of course, they were light on their feet and able to pass by unseen by most if they wished. 

If you asked a hobbit, they would say the talent they were most proud of was their ability to grow the finest pipe-weed. But if you asked a hobbit the talent they most enjoyed having?

That would be parties. 

Hobbits threw the best parties in all of Middle Earth, no matter what any elf-king might have said to the contrary. The parties were fun and lively and tied the Shire together. 

The autumn harvest festival was second only to the spring festival in its size and energy, but had an even greater amount of food. There was dancing, eating, contests, plenty of drinking, and more often than not, romance. 

And now the hobbits had someone to show off to. 

\------------------------------------------------------------

Bilba had originally been unsure of how to broach the subject of the party with Thorin. After all, the last time the hobbits gathered together he hadn’t been too happy with the result. Luckily, she was saved by the formal invitation Adamanta Took, Bilba’s grandmother, sent out. 

“We are hereby invited to the annual harvest festival,” Kíli read aloud. “Upon this full moon, our presence is requested at the Tooks’ Great Smials, wherein we are free to eat, drink, and make merry to our hearts’ content.”

Dwalin snorted. 

“They’re as flowery in their words as they are everything else,” the warrior grunted.

The dwarves sat around the dining table, picking their teeth and smoking. Fíli and Kíli sat on either side of Thorin as their uncle read over the letter silently. Bilba watched over her shoulder from the sink, trying to get a glimpse of his face to guess his decision. The other company members were discussing it, most in favor of going, when Thorin called Bilba back to the room. She stood at the far end of the table, wringing a washcloth nervously. Thorin’s face held its usual grim countenance, his eyes squinted in suspicion. 

“Miss Baggins,” he greeted deeply, and Bilba’s heart jumped when she noticed how everyone’s eyes were on her. “We will venture to this hobbit gathering, if you can assure us there is no foul play or disturbances planned for us during that evening.” His ice-blue eyes matched his cold voice with an eyebrow cocked in question, and most of the dwarves were spouting equally curious looks. 

“It’s just a party,” Bilba said softly, faking timidity. The hobbits certainly didn’t have anything cruel planned for the dwarves, but they were all eager to see how the dwarves might embarrass themselves should they try to compete with the hobbits at anything. “We have it every year. The clan heads didn’t want to be rude by not inviting you, so…” 

“So we get to party all night long!” Kíli cheered. 

“Not you,” Thorin growled. “You and Fíli will remain here during the festivities. Or do you think the hobbits have forgotten what you did to that woman?” Kíli and Fíli cowed guiltily under his stormy gaze, until Thorin turned back to Bilba. “Fine, then. We will go to this festival. Inform your cousins.” 

Bilba nodded quickly and bolted from the room, writing out the RSVP with a beaming smile. 

\-------------------------------------------------------

“Technically speaking, it’s our holiday in reverence of Yavanna, our creator,” Bilba explained as she and the dwarves marched to the Took smials. “It’s to thank her for her generosity and bountiful harvests. But we spend much of the night eating and dancing. It’s the last time we get to do so for months.” Most of the dwarves were in their finer wear and Bilba wearing an embroidered gold vest over a white blouse with a grass-green skirt. The invitation did not state a dress code, but it was still a public celebration. 

“In Erebor, we have shrines to Mahal laden with gold and jewels,” Thorin sneered. “We show our father how grateful we are with gifts. And this…party is what you give to your mother for all her kindness?” 

His tone was plenty insulting, but considering who was talking Bilba thought Thorin sounded relatively conversational. 

“It’s no grand gesture, I suppose,” Bilba said thoughtfully, “but I think it depends on the parent how they prefer their children to thank them. Some would be happier to see their creations rich, but I would think that others would rather have them celebrate with good cheer.” 

A few small smiles quirked up amongst the dwarves, but Thorin and Bilba did not notice at the head of the group. 

“And that is all you do? Make merry? Dance and eat and sing?” he prodded disbelievingly. 

“No, we also have games and contests,” Bilba answered. 

“Like what?” Bofur asked curiously, catching up to them. Bilba grinned at her new companion. 

“Well, all the farmers bring their finest crops. The largest fruits and vegetables. The juiciest, the sweetest, and the most pretty-looking are all awarded prizes, amongst others,” Bilba explained as more dwarves drew closer to listen. “Then all the cooks deliver their best creations. Breads, stews, desserts especially. The pipe-weed smoke-off is probably the funniest to watch, though quite fun to participate in. Of course, there’s also races and games like conkers for the children, though plenty of adults join in those for the fun. You’d think the wee ones would be at a disadvantage, but just try playing hide-and-seek with a bunch of critters who aren’t up to your waist. Isn’t that right, Frodo?” 

“You bet!” Frodo shouted gleefully from where he was strolling with Ori. The two young lads had grown close, Frodo curious about Ori’s writings and the places he’d seen. 

“There’s also a few poker tables, for those of you interested,” Bilba added wryly, getting winks from both Gloin and Nori. “And lest we forget, the most important competition,” Bilba paused for effect and the dwarves leaned even closer, “the eating contest.” 

Bombur pushed his way to the front at that. 

“Each clan offers up their champion eater and the first to get through the year’s chosen dishes is the winner. Every family puts in a few dishes, usually trying to sabotage the others with spicy things or prunes. The eaters can’t get up from the table, you see. It’s always a close win anyways. The Tooks and Brandybucks think themselves unbeatable but the Bagginses hold their own. Not to mention the years the Prodfoots, Grubbs, and Gamgees have won.”

“Can any clan enter?” Bofur asked, scratching his hairy chin. 

“Oh aye,” Bilba said. “Everyone roots for their family, but underdogs are great fun. It’s the closest thing we have to winning honor for your family, I suppose.” 

The dwarves all shared looks at this and started whispering amongst themselves. Even Thorin spoke a few soft words in Dwalin’s bitten ear. 

And Bilba’s smile only widened. 

\-----------------------------------------------------

The sun was far from setting when Bilba and the company arrived, but even then the party was on. Faunts were running around rampant, laughing and shouting, and Frodo dashed off to join them as soon as his aunt gave the okay. The adults were mingling, not yet truly celebrating but building up steam. Tents darted the Tooks’ fields and streamers hung from all around. And everything was covered in petals and flowers. 

“You all are rather obsessed with these things,” Dwalin said, gazing at the blooms with disinterest. 

“Our Mother loves them,” Bilba replied simply. 

Other dwarves, soldiers and healers and other members of the army were seated around, none sure of just how to act. They bowed as Thorin passed, but were mostly relaxed. Thorin’s dwarves glanced around at the mass of hobbits and their decorations, murmuring their thoughts to each other, until Dwalin sniffed loudly. They all paused, smelling the array of scents in the air.

The food. 

And oh, was there food. 

An entire tent was devoted solely to the catering, lined side to side with tables covered in dishes of every kind. 

One table was solely meat, holding steak drizzled with gravy or stewed to the utmost tenderness. There were slabs of roast beef, sliced paper thin or thickly. One end had an entire roasted pig with an apple still in its mouth. The pulled-pork was spicy and soft, and next to it were two hunks of ham, one smoked and one honeyed. Sausages came in every different size and shape, some boiled and some fried, with others braised in a myriad of sauces. Roasted turkey, pheasant, and quail were seated next, crammed with stuffing and sprinkled with savory spices or glaze. Salmon was lined up by the plate, fried, baked, and sautéed. Venison and jerky in four different flavors sat temptingly, along with a row whole chickens for eating. 

The next table supported meat and vegetable stews, as well as slippery broths. Hearty soups were held in large cast-iron pots with rich chowders. Creamy dressings and gravies for other concoctions end the line near the plates. Soft and crunchy carrots started the next column of dishes. There were mushrooms, fried over the stove or baked with tasty mixes atop them, stacked up like mountains. In rows of bowls were fried tomatoes, and then there was asparagus, nearly pooling with liquid butter beneath it. Corncobs loaded wooden plates along with pumpkin and squash, with cooked seeds for quick eating. 

There was an entire feast laid out in the form of potatoes, cooked to perfection. Hashbrowns, fries, chips, mashed potatoes, baked potatoes, and more covered the wooden slab. There was another whole spread of drinks, with wines and ales and lemonades and juices and whatever moonshine hobbits could sneak in. Herbs for seasoning were in bowls around the room; rosemary, thyme, basil, cloves, and oregano all ready for choosing. Breads, light and airy to thick and crusty, were lined up near the plates, along with butter, jams, and icings. There were two stacks of cheese wheels in one corner, each a different type, and a row of bowls with various nuts next to it. Next to them was the table of baked goods, with pastries, scones, cakes, pies, éclairs, and cookies, each full of fruit and chocolate and iced generously. There were raspberries, blackberries, apples, pears, plums, cherries, and countless others the dwarves hadn’t seen since Erebor. 

“Holy forges,” Dwalin muttered. The dwarves, all wide-eyed and slack-jawed, stared at the mighty layout. 

“Oh, this?” Bilba chuckled. “It’s only dinner. We’ve still got supper to go through and all the snacks for afterwards.” 

Dwalin fainted.

\--------------------------------------------------

The dwarves found that they very much liked hobbit parties. The patrons were cheery and easy to talk to, and the ale never stopped flowing. The music was lively and bright, causing more than one dwarf with an instrument to join the hobbit band. Nori and Gloin were quickly learning the ropes of hobbits poker, while little hobbit children were teaching Bifur how to thread nuts for conkers. Dori was ‘testing’ the hobbit vine varieties, and not being too disappointed, judging from the pink tint to his cheeks. Ori was being cooed over by some of the hobbit women, with whom he began comparing knitting patterns. Oin and Dwalin were sitting unobtrusively in a corner with a few of the other warriors, drinking and smoking. Bombur was, surprisingly, not simply inhaling food. He sat with a few of the heftier hobbits, comparing recipes (and trying plenty of them). Bilba and Bofur ended up sticking together, mingling and introducing the other to hobbits and dwarves alike. Most of the hobbits liked Bofur well enough; he was charming and funny, if not a little lewd. But the dwarves all stared at Bilba in amazement. She did realize she was laughing at the jokes of a violent killer, right?

Thorin watched from the edge of the party, eyes scanning the crowds of curly haired and bearded folk. He was pleased that his warriors had a chance to enjoy themselves. Parties were not usually held in fallen cities for fear of instigating rebellion, but this seemed genuine. Quaint in comparison to the massive balls Erebor held on the solstices, but admirable. 

“This certainly makes diplomatic relations a tad easier,” Balin said, strolling over with two ales. Thorin nodded in thanks as Balin handed him one. “After that march I was sure we’d be in a bloodbath by morning, but this is much more pleasant, if unexpected.” 

“Aye,” Thorin agreed. “Though I would imagine part of it is because they know how a war would go.” Balin smiled softly. 

“They’re not exactly a fighting bunch, but rather polite I must say. Dori has become rather fond of their belief in etiquette.” 

Thorin chuckled, “And you are so fond of him, my friend.” Balin rolled his eyes. His affection for the tea-maker was known only by Thorin and Dwalin, and he intended to keep it that way. Dori was a dwarf who deserved respect, who deserved a thorough courtship, not some hurried fling during a campaign. And Balin would not dare use his standing or riches to try and move him along. When they returned to Erebor, Dori would be a near-equal, rich and powerful. Balin would try his luck then. “Though it is your job to give it, take this little piece of advice,” Thorin said wryly. “You may want to make you’re move before one of the hobbit lasses, because it’s not only the wine making Dori blush.” Balin’s gaze snapped up to the tents, glancing for the tea-maker and spotting him chatting with a few hobbit ladies. Pursing his lips, Balin turned back to Thorin. 

“Yes, well, I would never leave a friend where someone could take advantage of them,” Balin said firmly, but obviously knowing how hypocritical it sounded. He began to stride away, but over his shoulder said, “And if anyone should catch your interest, I advise you go to them, lad. When will we get another chance?” 

Thorin glared at his friend as Balin strolled away with a smirk on his face. But sipping his ale, his gaze wandered over the festivities again. Hobbits were beginning to dance in groups, laughing as they kicked and bounced in sync in a dance Thorin did not know. His eyes roamed, landing on Bofur’s tell-tale hat. 

The dwarf was sitting next to Bilba on a wooden bench, surrounded by hobbit faunts. He could tell by the Bofur’s gesturing hands and the jumps of the children that he was no doubt telling them some wondrous tale. Little did they know that Bofur used to talk about murder and torture just as incessantly and with the same amount of enthusiasm. And yet they hung on his every word, and Bilba smiled at the former miner with such a warm look. 

Thorin snorted in derision. He was a king! What did Bofur have to be jealous of? 

What did he have that Thorin didn’t? 

What made Bilba stare at him so fondly…

Oh for Aule’s sake, why did he care?! 

Thorin had no need to be cooed over by some foolish burglar. Her unending kindness was no matter to him. 

Nor her bravery. 

Nor her loyalty. 

Nor her gentle heart…

No. Thorin would not think about such things. He did not want to want her. She was a thief, an insect trying to stop a god. 

But he could not draw his eyes away from where Bilba sat with Frodo in her lap, the little lad with curly hair and pointed ears, but black curly hair and ice-blue eyes. The boy that could have been mistaken for theirs…

Thorin shook himself. It wasn’t worth dwelling on. 

\------------------------------------------------------

The children cheered at the end of Bofur’s story, giving the dwarf a round of applause. Bilba glanced up, spotting the grateful nods of the parents for watching the faunts while they did. The little lads and lasses began to wander away, sorting themselves out into games or mischief (or in Frodo’s case, food). Bofur sighed. 

“That’s a sight you won’t find in Erebor, lass.” 

“What?” she asked curiously. 

“That many kids in one place. There may be thousands of dwarves in Erebor but children are rare! You don’t see so many at once very often,” he said softly. “’nless you go to Bombur’s house a’course. He’s got a herd of ‘em.”

Bilba chuckled at the idea, the laughter dropping off somewhat as she thought of what Bombur’s children might be like. But then from across the party, a tune picked up. One every hobbit knew. 

Bilba gasped, “Bofur! Come on, you must see this!” She jumped to her feet and dragged the dwarf to the open space for dancing near the band. The dwarves weren’t playing this one, just the hobbit musicians, and other Shirelings were beginning to surround the area as they got ready for the dance. 

“What is it?” Bofur asked with nervous laughter. 

“The Quick-Step! You have to try it,” Bilba said eagerly. “Just follow my feet and try to keep up.”

“None of the other dwarves seem to be dancin’, lass,” Bofur said a little quieter.

“Then we’ll just have to change that,” Bilba said confidently, but Bofur felt cautious of the manic glint in her eye. As the song picked up, the tune bouncing and quick with violins and other strings pulling it along, hobbits filled the space in pairs. Pulled by his wrists, Bofur was hauled into the middle of the fray, only his leather hat seen by those outside the crowd. “All you have to do is match my steps and speed up as the song does,” Bilba explained quickly. “If it gets too fast, just kip off to the benches. It’s a contest, you see? Last dancer standing wins.” Bofur nodded automatically, still not sure what he’d gotten himself into. 

At one loud stroke of the violins, the dance was on! Bofur watched her feet desperately. Kick forward, kick back, spin on your heel—

Suddenly she grabbed his hands and they spun together, like all the other pairs, until Bilba let go and Bofur was sent hurtling. He nearly crashed into a lad who simply grinned at him and repeated the motions. Okay, now he was starting to get this.

Bofur matched the lad across from him and when they spun, he went flying into another lass, and repeat. The tune was getting faster, he could tell, but there was no time to think! The hobbits were all laughing at the insanity of it all, though he imagined the dance to be a bit easier for those not wearing heavy boots. 

By the time he managed to get himself flung back to Bilba, the dance floor had cleared significantly. Most couldn’t match the pace or had gotten too tired. But Bofur held onto the sheer dwarven stubbornness and endured. Bilba flashed him a smirk, appearing to not have broken a sweat while he was still panting. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the circle around them growing in thickness, but now with dwarves as well. Warriors were coming to watch and he could hear the gasps and shouts as the pace jumped again. 

But this time, when Bofur flew away, there was no one left to catch him. His eyes searched the inside of the circle, and the only other dancer left standing was Bilba. Smirking deviously, she gestured him forth, and the two met in the center of the ring, beginning the dance again. 

The speed was ridiculous and Bofur had no doubt that he was losing, but he tried to keep up. The honor of the dwarves was at stake! Bilba’s eyes were focused on her feet, brow knitted in concentration. The verse was nearing the end, but instead of grabbing Bilba’s hands and flinging her away, the dwarf wrapped an arm around her waist and swooped into a dip. 

The song stopped abruptly just as they stilled, the pattern too fast for even the musicians, and Bilba and Bofur were left panting with their arms around each other, while the crowd was silent. 

“It appears we have a tie,” Rory said suddenly, standing on the edge of the circle. 

And the crowd, hobbits and dwarves alike, roared in applause. 

Thorin’s tankard cracked in his grip. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------

Slowly, other dwarves started to trickle into the dancing ring. Hobbits went through the motions carefully, teaching the dwarves the moves and giggling as their beards and braids swung wildly. As the hobbits began to tire, however, the dwarves filled in the space. The warrior musicians started playing dwarven songs, and the hobbits watched dwarven dancing for the first time. 

It was nothing like hobbit dances, that was for certain. Where hobbits dipped and swooped and kicked lightly and freely, dwarven dance was full of sudden, brash moves and stomping boots. The dwarves moved perfectly in sync as a group, their steps loud and pounding and their arms jerking this way and that, like they were each fighting an invisible enemy. The hobbits’ music had been smooth and fluid, with violins and flutes and other wooden instruments. But the dwarves had brought out large drums and beat them in a harsh rhythm. The dwarves moved as one, but never as couples, only in rows and columns. It might not have been to their taste, but the hobbits found it interesting to watch. 

The hobbit children seemed to love the new act, and spent much of their time trying to recreate the actions, stomping around like giant trolls and almost hitting each other in the face. Having not seen many children that were actually fond of them, the dwarves were happy to teach the faunts, giving their parents a break. 

Dwalin, who hadn’t left his seat in over an hour, actually found himself faced with four curious little tikes. 

“Mister Dwalin!” Frodo greeted as he and three friends galloped up to his side. The dwarf raised a brow, staring down at the wee ones as they gazed up in awe. “I wanted you to meet my friends! This is Merry, Pippin, and Sam.” Merry waved at the warrior and Sam did the same but more timidly. Pippin was far too distracted by the giant scar across the dwarf’s face to do much of anything. “Will you play with us?” 

“Ah…” He glanced back at his ale, wondering if he could tell them he was busy. But why not? It wasn’t like he got to play with little tots every day. He just hoped he didn’t break them. “What did you have in mind?” 

“Carry us!” they all cried at once. Dwalin’s shoulders slumped. This was a mistake. 

Across the party, Nori found himself in a very fun poker game with a mix of hobbits and dwarves. The lass across the table was good competition, raking in a fair share of the coin. Gloin was grumbling but Nori just smirked. 

“What do you say we make this more interesting?” he said slyly, glancing around the table. The dwarves all shrunk in their seats, knowing where Nori was going and getting ready to back out. Most of the hobbits shared confused looks, but the lass stared right back at him, an eyebrow cocked. 

“How so?” she asked. 

“We keep the money-betting going, but if you lose, you have to give an item of clothing to the winner,” Nori explained, a wolfish-grin uncurling on his face. Gloin and the other dwarves threw down their cards and backed away, the hobbits following suit, except, of course, for her. 

“You’re on,” she said simply, tossing her dark brown curls over her shoulder and checking her cards again. “And it’s your bet.” 

“What’s your name, lass?” he asked as they played. 

“Amaranth Brandybuck. You call?”

“Nori. Call.”

She smiled back at him, thin lips revealing bright white teeth, and revealed her cards. 

Perhaps one of the hobbits should have mentioned Amaranth was the undefeated poker champ of the Shire, but they were too busy laughing as Nori handed over his coat. 

A few rounds later, he was down to his tunic and trousers, and swore to recruit a few hobbits into his spy web. 

“Attention! Attention everyone!” Adamanta Took called over the festivities. The partiers slowed in their activities, looking up to where the matriarch stood on a small hill. “I want to thank you all for coming, especially of new guests, and for joining us on this wonderful occasion. Now, it’s getting late and that means it’s time for our largest competition, the eating contest! Clans, push forth your champions and let’s get started!” 

The hobbits and dwarves moved towards the sitting tent, now with tables lined with equal amounts of food. The hobbit clans were huddled in large groups giving final advice to their chosen eater. 

“Bagginses!” Adamanta shouted over the chatting. “Who will represent you?” 

A sturdy male hobbit came forward, with curly red-brown hair and a respectably-round stomach 

“Falco Baggins!” he reported. Bilba’s cousin had won more than once, though his need to be polite and eat with a knife and fork tended to slow him down. 

The other clans were called, with Adalgrim Took and Asphodel Brandybuck stepping forth. Herugar Bolger and Jago Boffin joined them, though neither were favorites to win (they were far more eager to beat each other seeing as Herugar was courting Jago’s sister, but hush-hush). 

“Dwarves?” Adamanta questioned. “Will any of you be volunteering?” 

“Aye,” Thorin answered loudly and deeply from the edge of the crowd, backed by his company. “Broadbeams!” 

Bofur, Bifur, and a few other dwarves cheered as Bombur walked, or waddled, forward. More than a handful of hobbits’ eyebrows flew up at the sight of the large dwarf, the other champions among them. 

“Longbeards!” 

And Dwalin moved before the groups the hobbits, attempting to be intimidating, but that was rather difficult when he had a small child carried in each arm and two more sitting on his shoulders. 

“Would somebody please collect these?” he bellowed irritably, making most of the hobbits and dwarves laugh even as the parents grabbed their boys. Bilba beamed up at him as she pulled Frodo off his shoulder. Not a scratch on the lad, she noticed. 

The seven competitors each sat down at a table, casting judging looks at one another. All watched in tense excitement. 

“First to finish every dish wins. If you have to leave or vomit, you are disqualified. Good luck,” Adamanta said, “And go!” 

The eaters dived into their dishes, inhaling the food. Bombur appeared to be able to fit more in his mouth, but the hobbits were chowing down like bunnies. Bilba was pretty sure she saw Dwalin swallow a whole chicken leg. 

The hobbits and dwarves observed eagerly, chuckling as different contestants hit the spicy or rich dishes. Bombur had held a small lead for much of it, but Asphodel and Adalgrim were closing in. Jago was the first to fall out (to the joy of is sister) when he threw up the Bagginses’ heavy blueberry-and-vanilla muffins. Dwalin was next, waving his arm in surrender and slumping down in his seat with a loud belch, crumbs still in his beard. Falco couldn’t down the Tooks’ three-pepper chili and quit, as did Herugar. It was down to three. 

Thorin pushed through the viewers as the contest went on, arriving at Bilba’s side at the front of the mass. She took little notice of him, busy roaring support for her cousin Adalgrim. Was he her cousin? Who knew how they related. 

“Is this an important custom among your people?” Thorin asked into her ear, trying to be heard over the cheers. 

“Hard to say if it’s important,” Bilba answered, shrugging. “It’s just what we do every year.”

They continued to watch as both Bombur and Asphodel began to slow, while Adalgrim drank the dangerous chili like wine and moved on. Bombur looked redder than usual and Asphodel was panting. Adalgrim was smiling brilliantly, swallowing bite after bite, until the last cookie disappeared down his throat. 

“And there we have it!” Adamanta shouted proudly. “Adalgrim has won it for the Tooks!” 

A chorus of cheers and moans rose up at the announcement, money bags flying through the air as bets were settled. Bilba clapped and smirked as Bofur approached. Thorin’s expression soured. 

“Told you to not underestimate us,” she said knowingly as Bofur passed her a handful of coins. Like anyone could beat a hobbit at eating. 

“Well, excuse me as I join the band for some more modest company, Miss Braggins,” Bofur replied, pulling out his flute. He strolled away and the crowd around the tent thinned, leaving Bilba alone with the grim conqueror. 

“Enjoying the party?” she asked awkwardly. The silence between them was suffocating. 

“It’s been…interesting. Very different from the celebrations in Erebor, but appealing in its own way,” Thorin answered. “Far fewer speeches, which is quite preferable.” 

Bilba wondered if that was Thorin Oakenshield’s way of making a joke. 

“Does it continue all night or stop at a certain time?” he inquired. 

“Oh, well, the eating contest is usually near the end so there might be another hour or two before the closing ceremonies.” 

“Ah.” 

The two stood there for a moment, quietly how people ever managed small talk. 

“I’m going to congratulate Adalgrim,” Bilba said, escaping off to her cousins. 

\----------------------------------------------------------

Thorin, for the first time in his life, didn’t know what to do. 

He had always had a plan. 

When someone opposed him, he destroyed them. 

When he wanted something, he took it. 

Never had he found both in a single entity. 

Bilba was infuriating, insulting, and all too clever to be allowed to live. But she was so gentle and non-violent, what threat was she to him? She had shown concern for his dwarves when she had every reason to hate them, and put her life on the line for her people. Witty, caring, determined, but so soft. As easy to bruise as a peach. He was oak and stone. Bilba was a delicate flower. But for all he had thrown at her, she had yet to break. She wasn’t rising up, but she wasn’t backing down. Her stubbornness rivaled the dwarves’ and her sarcasm and sass were only barely controlled by her sense of self-preservation. The fire in her eye could range from warm and comforting to raging and unstoppable. A paradox wrapped in unmarred skin and lush lips and…and…

A tingle went down his spine. 

Thorin Oakenshield _shivered_. 

He swallowed hard, and grabbed another ale. 

From his small standing table he could see Bilba roaming amongst her people. Her curls shining like copper as she laughed through ruby lips. Her hair was shorter than most of the other hobbit women, just reaching past her chin, but they bounced with her steps. 

Thorin glared at his tankard. He really had a problem. 

But what else was there to look at? 

The dwarves and hobbits getting along famously?

Dwarves and hobbits actually dancing and singing together? 

His soldiers getting a taste of peace and relishing it?

Thorin’s shoulders fell, eyes searching Bilba out. She was dancing again, some line-dance the hobbits were teaching the dwarves. They interlinked arms in two lines facing each other, kicking out and in as the end couple danced down between the two lines and relinked on the other ends. He watched her be twirled by some random hobbit and they leaped down the lines, the gold of her vest twinkling in the lamp light. Her skirt swirled as she spun, like leaves in the breeze, and Bilba looked so at ease, more joyous than he had ever seen her. 

More dwarves were joining the lines as they learned the steps, changing the pattern of couples. Ori had somehow been roped into it, as had Bifur (who had spent most of the night carving toys for the children). Bilba was still paired with the hobbit from before, and the brilliant, giggling smile she gave him was too much. 

Thorin stormed towards the dancing lines, but too late. The song changed to something slower and many of the dancers left to get a snack. But Bilba was still standing there. 

He strode to her confidently and her brow jumped as he stopped in front of her. 

“Miss Baggins,” he said quickly so he couldn’t stop himself, “may I have this dance?” He held out his calloused hand. 

Her eyes widened almost comically and she swallowed visibly, but nonetheless she took his hand. Glancing at the other couples, he realized romantic dancing was rather universal when it came to hand-placement, and rested one on her waist. Bilba’s tiny hand was barely felt on his thickly-robed shoulder. 

Their eyes met for but a moment before Bilba nervously looked away. Thorin clenched his jaw. How did the bloody miner do this?

“You look very beautiful tonight,” he forced out, sounding much more like a growl than he meant to. Her eyes flashed up in surprise. 

“T-thank you,” she stuttered nervously, not meeting his eyes. She was barely higher than his shoulder, he noted unconsciously. “Oh, would you look at that,” she said softly, gazing at something behind him. They were spinning slowly, and Thorin saw what had caught her attention. Dori and Balin. 

The older couple were dancing too, away from most of the others. They were smiling at each other, but not big beaming grins. Just small, warm, caring expressions, as they stared into the other’s eyes. 

“I didn’t know they were together,” Bilba said, tilting her head. 

“They’re not, officially,” Thorin informed her. “Balin wants to wait until we return to Erebor before they start courting.” 

“But what if one of them were to fall in battle?” Bilba asked, concerned for her new friend. 

“I do not know.” 

Bilba sighed, only putting as much effort into the dance as necessary. This song was far too long. 

“There is something I wanted to ask you, Miss Baggins,” Thorin said, catching her eye. “The hobbits all seem so open to the dwarves, when little more than a week ago they were protesting our presence. How?” 

Bilba shrugged. 

“We’re not the type to hold grudges, I suppose,” she said softly. “We forgive, we forget. They know it wasn’t your order, that what happened to Lobelia was…maybe not an accident, but not by any policy. The dwarves at large seem to be nice enough, and they see no reason to hold it against them.” 

“And you?” 

Bilba didn’t answer for a moment, watching the crowds around them. Nori was trying to win his clothes back. Dwalin was under a pile of children. Ori was knitting with a few housewives. 

“No,” Bilba said, firmly but quiet. “What Fíli and Kíli did was terrible, but they didn’t know any better. And they are beginning to realize why what they did was wrong. Besides, why would I hold it against all of you when it was only them who made the mistake?” Her gaze met his. “Why would I hate all for the actions of one?” 

Thorin nodded. Point taken. 

“I have no intention to harm your people,” he replied. 

“But you still might,” Bilba said coldly. The song was coming to an end, and she pulled away. 

The hand holding hers did not let go. 

His grip was like iron, though not painful. Yet. 

“One more dance,” he said. It wasn’t a question. 

She swallowed and sighed, and moved back into his arms. 

“Your people are very peaceful. No violence, no weapons, not even defenses. How have you survived the centuries?” He tilted his head inquisitively. This time it was Bilba who clenched her jaw. 

“We haven’t always been this peaceful. My Great-great-great-great-uncle killed a Goblin king,” she answered solemnly. “We deal with things as they happen, but we prefer to not invite trouble when we can.” 

“It seems to have worked well for you.” Bilba couldn’t tell if he was being genuine or sarcastic. 

“I suppose we always had friends as well. The Rangers kept an eye on the borders and Gandalf—“ Bilba shut her mouth fast. Damn. Glancing up for barely a second, she saw the look on his face. A brow cocked in question. 

“And Gandalf?” he goaded. 

“He was there. When we needed him,” she sighed, and looked up towards the starlit sky. “He’d come by on festivals and parties, too. Best fireworks in Middle Earth.” 

Thorin didn’t reply, and Bilba went back to watching the crowds. She noticed how most of the hobbits were migrating towards the food tent. The party must be nearing the end then. The dance continued for another minute, before the music quieted.

“Hello, everyone!” Adamanta called again. Bilba let her arms fall but didn’t move away, and Thorin released her. “I want to thank everyone again for coming out. This was one of our finest harvest festivals I’m sure. All that’s left is our prayer to Yavanna, and we can begin to wrap up. Hobbits, at your will.” 

And the dwarves were left staring as all the hobbits bowed their heads in silence. Even the little faunts who had stacked themselves atop Dwalin were sitting quietly, eyes closed. None of the dwarves made a sound, but most shared surprised looks, and they waited. 

Thorin was struck by another difference between hobbits and dwarves. Dwarven prayers to Mahal were loud chants, bold songs, more than a few usually accompanied by hammers clanging against metal. Mahal was a fierce god, stubborn and strong, building his children to endure. 

And he remembered how Yavanna and Mahal were supposed to be married. 

But Thorin was distracted as one-by-one the hobbits began to raise their heads, until all were looking towards Adamanta. All she did was give one curt nod. 

And through the delicate silence, cut a stark voice. 

“FOOOOD FIIIIIGHT!” 

And all the Halls of Mandos broke loose. 

Food was flying everywhere and Thorin was pulled to the ground by Bilba’s firm hand, hearing her loud laughter and that of other hobbits. He saw a hunk of meat fly overhead as a glob of pudding hit a dwarf square in the chest. 

“What is the meaning of this?” he yelled. 

“Tradition!” Bilba shrieked as she jumped to her feet, grabbing a tankard of ale and flinging the golden liquid onto the tunic of another hobbit. “Don’t just lie there! Grab a plate!” 

Thorin leaped towards a table, ducking for cover. 

“For the Bagginses!” he heard, seeing Falco splatter jam all over Adalgrim’s pants. 

Hobbits were mad. 

The dwarves were freaking out. 

None had brought weapons nor shields, and were turning over tables and using platters for cover, mostly trying to protect their beards. 

At first, they had thought the hobbits were trying to attack them. 

They soon realized it was simply a free-for-all. 

Bofur, ever one to start trends, grabbed a bowl of mashed potatoes. 

“Feel the fury of the Broadbeams!” he roared laughingly, swinging it so the mash flew out and hit Nori’s (now bear thanks to Amaranth) back. 

The spy roared in indignation, throwing a nearby turkey leg. Bofur ducked, and it ended up hitting Dwalin full in the face. The grease only made his enraged eyes all the brighter. But a frightening grin grew up his face. 

“Launch!” he bellowed, and a dozen faunts hurled handfuls of nuts, creamed corn, and bread at the dwarves. 

The hobbits, having years of practice, were pushing the dwarves back with meats and vegetables, until one dwarf got a bright idea. 

“Phalanx formation!” Balin shouted over the screams and laughter. The warriors reacted immediately, grabbing platters for shields and marching forward as they scooped up fallen food for throwing. 

Thorin and Bilba, caught in the middle of the two, were hiding in a small storage tent as the battle of the dishes raged outside. 

“So I suppose this is how your race deals with frustration,” Thorin said dryly. 

“Only once a year,” Bilba answered with a grin. “Can’t waste so much food very often. But it’s a special occasion.” 

“I am going to have to comb corn out of my hair. This is a terrible tradition.”

Bilba chuckled. At him. 

He had made her laugh. 

It was rather close-quarters in the tent, and Thorin didn’t have to move much to get close to her. 

“You are feisty creatures.” Thorin smiled, shaking his head. “When you wish to be.” 

Bilba gave him a gentle, solemn smile. 

“When we wish to be.” 

\----------------------------------------------------------

Fíli and Kíli were incredibly disappointed when they heard all they had missed, but were glad to skip out on the bath each dwarf now had to take. Bilba had to clean honey out of Frodo’s hair, which was an utter delight as he somehow managed to get almonds stuck in there as well. 

Most of the dwarves were off to bed within a few hours, knowing they wouldn’t be up until late the next morning. Bilba was just closing her eyes to sleep as Thorin walked by the doorway, not stopping but easily visible in the firelight. 

Thorin, who had just gotten out of the bath and was in naught but a towel around his hips. The corded muscles of his back were stark in the orange firelight, and though he passed in little more than a second, Bilba easily got a glimpse of the numerous scars that covered his back. 

The dwarves may have thought the only battles the hobbits had ever seen were ones fought with fruits and vegetables, but the Shirefolk were no strangers to blood. 

The dwarves thought the hobbits avoided violence out of naivety. 

That was far from the truth. 

The hobbits shunned violence out of desperation. 

Perhaps the dwarves were harder, if they could take the nightmares battles caused and plunge into them once more. Perhaps they were more thick-skinned if they could look at their scars in the mirror without risking anxiety attacks or vomiting. Maybe the dwarves were right in saying the hobbits were unfit for battle. 

But the Children of Yavanna had their fair share of experience with war, bloody and terrifying war. 

The food fight was their therapy, Bilba supposed. An attempt to turn their deepest horrors into something they could laugh about, as they entered the dark, cold season of winter. The season where even the Brandywine could freeze, and monsters could invade the Shire. 

Bilba knew it hadn’t happened in twenty years, but such things weren’t forgotten easily. 

Not when she had the scars to remember it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One dwarf to go.


	18. The Most Important One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Balin is the only company member left to talk to, and he knows Thorin best.   
> And Bilba's little scheme may have backfired...

Balin, eldest member of the company, had the rare talent of being able to look at both the big picture and the little details of a plan and keep everything straight. He could see connections before anyone else, strategies before the battles had even come to a head, and could memorize the names and skills of every soldier in an army. Meticulous, clever, and eternally calm, the elder son of Fundin was feared by every general and king in Middle Earth, second only to Thorin. 

But while he enjoyed victory as much as the next dwarf, Balin lacked the bloodlust most others had. War was a means to an end, not a hobby. 

And despite his best efforts, it was probably this quality that made him a little relaxed in his dealings with Miss Bilba Baggins. She was a kindred spirit in some respects, but an enemy nonetheless. Should she become a threat, Balin was ready to behead her at a moment’s notice. But violence was obviously not her way, which Balin could appreciate. He was an old dwarf, and if he could skip a battle for a cup of tea and get the same result, then wonderful. 

Observing his fellow company members was a common pastime for Balin. He was Thorin’s second in command, the conqueror’s left hand and most trusted advisor. If anyone was to sense a traitor amongst the ranks, it was him. So he kept an eye out.

But over the course of the months they had stayed in the Shire, Balin had noticed a trend. Not traitorous, no. But odd. Very…unexpected. 

The burglar, whom had managed to steal the Arkenstone (which still stunned Balin), was slowly befriending those who had wanted nothing more than to torture her slowly and viciously. Nori, her teacher, had beaten her in combat training for days before easing up and using her natural skills to create a new form of spy. Bombur and Dwalin had fallen in love with the lass’s cooking and she’d even managed to win over the nearly-mute Bifur and the utterly-psychotic Bofur. Thorin’s own nephews behaved like they were her family, and Dori and Ori saw the hobbitess as a sister. Gloin and Oin even spent evenings chatting about children and medicines with her. 

And Thorin?

Balin could only shake his head. 

The old dwarf himself found the woman amiable, often bringing him tea and recommending books he could find in her study. Bilba was polite in spite of everything they had done, and a doting aunt on the side. Frodo made Bag End seem all the warmer as well. It had been many years since Balin had a toddler running around his knees; Dwalin had been a bull in dwarf’s clothing as a lad, while the wee hobbit faunt had etiquette to spare. 

Unlike some other members of the company, Balin refused to underestimate Bilba. If she had the skill and intelligence to steal the Thorin’s most prized possession from beneath his very nose, she was a force to be reckoned with. Balin had been looked down upon too many times to allow his ego to control his mind. 

But Bilba was a gentle, pleasant lass. Easy to talk to, wise with words, and completely expendable. Perfect. 

\--------------------------------------------------------

At the first snowfall of the season, a light one at that, Thorin ordered the majority of his forces to move towards the Blue Mountains for the winter. The dwarf colony there was strong and loyal, with homes and inns the soldiers could sleep in, rather than tents. Some would stay in the Shire; every new city or kingdom that fell to Thorin held a number of his warriors and officers to keep the peace. They probably weren’t needed in the Shire, but the warriors were staying for the hobbits’ protection just as much as their observation. 

Thorin had never witnessed so many dwarves volunteer for security duty before.

But the company was also remaining for the winter, because Nori needed to continue Bilba’s training and none of them had any motivation to leave. 

After a few days of packing and preparing, the dwarven army marched west, laden with more food than they had thought they could carry. The hobbits had plenty and felt horrible for anyone stuck walking in the cold (even if was just early winter).

The Shire seemed much quieter without the dwarves, or perhaps it was simply the hobbits’ lack of enthusiasm for the season. While the race of Men had a number of holidays this time of year, the hobbits had no love for winter. Crops didn’t grow, the animals fled, and a chill seeped in to each and every one of their hearts. 

Bilba sighed from behind her window, gazing at the village. The first snow was beautiful, painting Hobbiton white. But there were no hobbits about. The farm animals were in the barns, and no hobbit faunt ever went to play out in the snow. 

Snow was dangerous.

Ice was a monster. 

Winter was the closest thing the hobbits had to an enemy. 

The hobbitess just pulled on another shawl. If there was snowfall this early, then this year would have plenty of accumulation before the end. Hopefully the dwarves would give them a hand. They were hardier folk, after all. 

Bilba spent much of her time making hot food and treats for Frodo and the dwarves. The little lad was now rarely outside the smial, so she had to keep him entertained and try to stop him from aggravating the dwarves. Most were fine with the boy, but Bilba wasn’t too keen on letting her nephew get close to Thorin. 

She was bringing around her usual serving of tea, one chilly afternoon, when Balin asked her to stay for a moment. He was reading in her study, having adopted it as his haven away from some of his more rowdy and raucous brethren. Bilba could sympathize. 

“How are you doing this day, Miss Baggins?” Balin asked, ever polite. She knew she should be afraid of him, but Balin was difficult to fear. He was friendly and reminded Bilba of her grandfather. 

“Quite well, and you, Master Balin?” she replied with a genuine smile. Balin sipped his tea for a moment. 

“I am well, but I wanted to speak with you. A rather serious matter, I’m afraid,” he said, tilting his head so his mouth nearly disappeared behind his poofy white beard. 

“Yes?” Bilba asked, trying to hide her nervousness. 

“It is about you, and this little…strategy you have going on.”

Bilba gulped. 

“Easy, lass. This is no interrogation,” he said, putting his hands up when she tensed. “We are both level-headed people and there is no need for violence that I can see.” 

“Then what are you going to do?” Bilba questioned, setting down her tea tray. The company members hardly needed a reason to be violent, and most of them weren’t trained warriors like Balin.

“Talk,” Balin answered. “You have repeatedly shown that you have no inclination towards force and I have no desire to use it unless absolutely necessary. And as your record has also displayed, you are an ingenious woman. So let’s sit down and talk about this, civilly.” 

Bilba glanced at the shut door behind her and took a deep breath before nodding. He didn’t appear to be armed, so she should have felt a little relieved. Somehow, it only frightened her more. Pulling out an extra seat, she tried to prepare herself. 

“Now, it’s hardly a mystery to why the other members of this company have been treating you a might better than when we arrived,” Balin began. “You are a kind and peaceful soul, and the way you have influenced them over the months is nothing short of astounding.” Balin calmly took a sip of his tea, turning back to Bilba pointedly. “You’ve turned warriors into gentle-dwarves and knowing my brother, that is no small feat. I would be a fool not to be impressed. However, I would not be a good advisor if I did not investigate matters that concern me.” 

Bilba held her hands together tightly, fingers intertwined and squeezing. She had feared speaking with Balin for just this reason. He may be polite, but his intellect worried her far more than any of the others’ weapons. Thorin valued his opinion more than any other. If Balin was against her…

“For those who oppose us, their attempts tend to end in death. But other than stealing the Arkenstone, you have not committed a real crime against us. Now that jewel is incredibly precious to Thorin, but my mind has always focused more on the life-threatening side of rebellion, understand?” Balin raised an eyebrow. 

She nodded slowly. A dwarf that put life above riches. If she wasn’t so terrified Bilba would’ve been shocked. 

“And I haven’t found anything in this entire village that would pose such a threat. But nonetheless, your conversion of the company members does intrigue me,” Balin explained, but his voice turned dark. “Exactly _what_ are you planning to do, Miss Baggins?” 

The hobbit watched him for a second, heart pumping fast. The study seemed to have gotten colder, or maybe that was just her blood. Bilba tried to steady herself with a deep breath, and replied with her own question. 

“After this conversation is over, what are you going to tell Thorin?” she asked softly. 

“Only what would matter to him,” Balin said solemnly. Bilba sighed with a small nod. She couldn’t just walk away from this. She had to be careful and clever. Her eyes roamed, moving over the books and tomes of her study, the memories and tales and histories it held. It could all be ripped from her, burned or torn apart. Even her own nephew. 

“Balin, you know what happens to kings with too much power,” she said somberly. “Throughout history elves and dwarves and kings of men have warred. When one gained power, he grew cruel, and sooner or later he was slain. People will fight authority if it has abused them. And those who want authority will kill to get it.” 

Balin listened intently, patient for an answer. This was hardly a simple matter. 

“At first, all I wanted was to get the dwarves out of the Shire,” Bilba continued. “We’re not a race meant for war, but I thought I could at least save my people. But the plan with the Arkenstone failed and the Shire was Thorin’s. And then I found out about the elves…” Her shoulders slumped in resignation. “I realized, at that point, that Middle Earth had passed the horizon. There was no going back to the way things were. But I told myself that it didn’t mean the world had to be a terrible place.”

Bilba looked up, meeting Balin’s gaze, and he could see the fire in her eyes. 

“Thorin rules by fear. With an iron fist and a cold heart. I imagine most Men want him dead. And what if that did happen? If Thorin was assassinated? One lucky strike, one mistake in the defenses, and then the world is turned on its head. Could Fíli really take the throne and control the world just as his uncle? Maybe one day, yes, but not now. All of Middle Earth would plunge into war. Every king would try to regain his crown, every warrior with a desire for power would fight for it as well. Civil wars, border skirmishes, resources drying up…For all the deaths that have resulted from Thorin’s campaign, I feel like they would be nothing compared to what would happen if he was killed.” Bilba lips quivered at the thought. If Thorin fell, what would happen to the Shire? She had to squeeze her eyes shut and dispel the thoughts before watching Balin for his reaction. 

“So what is your idea?” Balin prodded. Bilba clenched her jaw and spoke slowly. 

“To make Thorin a beloved leader, not a hated one.”

Balin cocked a brow. 

“Think about it! If Thorin was a caring ruler, a king who looked after all of his people, not just those of his race, then no one would have reason to kill him. His war has led to some amazing possibilities. The world can stand together against the orcs and goblins. Resources can be traded faster. Middle Earth standing as one is more powerful than living apart,” Bilba elaborated. “If Thorin acted like a king and not a conqueror, then maybe the world could be a better place.” 

They were both quiet for a moment as Balin absorbed the information. Bilba was tense, waiting for his response. For all that the other dwarves were fond of her, Balin held more power than any of them. One word to Thorin and her head could be on the chopping block. The hobbit swallowed nervously. 

“Let me lay this out so I’m sure I understand,” Balin said anxiously. “You want to turn Thorin, the dwarf who set a _fire-drake_ on a forest of elves, who retook _Moria_ without mercy, who marched across Middle Earth and into your homeland and forced you to become his _maid_ , into a moral and virtuous king.” 

Bilba nodded, “Yes, that’s right.” 

Balin nodded blankly, scratching his brow. Wide-eyed, he glanced away with his cheeks blown out, thinking it over. 

“Well, Miss Baggins, you have quite the endeavor ahead of you,” Balin said, stunned. “I must admit I care for Thorin’s life more than his power. I wish thee luck. You’ll certainly need it.” 

Bilba gasped, a smile lighting up her face. 

“Oh, thank you—“

“But there are some things you should know,” Balin interrupted urgently. Bilba stared at him in confusion. “I know Dori has been teaching you about dwarven culture but there are a few things the average dwarf aren’t privy to, things that concern the royal family.” Balin’s tone was serious and the hobbit lass floundered. 

“Ah, yes, of course,” Bilba recovered quickly. “I don’t suppose you could tell me…well…”

“Why he stares at you?” Balin offered knowingly. Bilba spun to him in surprise. She had caught the conqueror watching her more than once, but if the others had noticed as well…

“What does it mean?” she asked quietly. 

“Thorin is…a difficult person to explain,” Balin said solemnly. “I suppose it is best to start at the beginning. Thorin’s grandfather, Thror, died shortly after Thorin was born, and Thrain, Thorin’s father, ruled for most of his young life. He was not as courteous as Thror, but he was a good king. Just not a good father.” Balin’s eyes dimmed at the memories, recalling the childhood he had watched from afar. “Thorin grew up training to be king. He was never a son, just a prince. I can’t remember Thrain ever telling Thorin he loved him. The boy barely got to act like a child. When he learned to speak, he was taught how to make speeches. When he learned how to walk, he was sent to weapons training. And Thrain was too busy running a mountain to notice.” Balin’s voice was morose, guilt darting his features. He had been raised close to Thorin, but Thrain had always called him Thorin’s ‘advisor’, never ‘friend’. 

It sent shivers down Bilba’s spine. To be ignored like that? She couldn’t imagine it. 

Balin continued, “If there was one thing Thrain taught his eldest son, it was that compassion was weakness. Love was a flaw, a disadvantage. Thorin grew up with a stone heart.”

“But what about the rest of his family? Surely he cares for his nephews,” Bilba asked worriedly. Balin shrugged. 

“I’m sure he does. But he will never see it as love.” The old dwarf met her gaze. “Thorin believes he is incapable of feeling such things. He would say he is loyal to those of his bloodline, or that he respects another’s skills or talents. He may be amused by people or find that he has many things in common with them and wishes to spend time with them as a result. These things could all amount to love, but Thorin would never admit it, because it would mean he has a vulnerability. And Thorin would never allow anyone to believe that.” Balin remembered Thorin and Dwalin as young lads, running around. They sparred together, took classes together, but flirting? Dwalin was no romantic, but even he had done his fair share of winking at the lasses. Thorin could have had any dwarf in the world, and plenty had attempted to woo him, but it was all for naught. Love was meaningless to the prince. 

“So what does this have to do with me?” Bilba questioned softly, curling in on herself in her chair. A small, comforting smile grew on Balin’s face. 

“Because you confuse him, Miss Baggins. Your existence shatters this concept. After all you have done, Thorin has every reason to kill you, but he hasn’t. Because he has feelings for you.” 

“Impossible.” 

“How else do you explain it?” Balin retorted. “Here you are, this little force of opposition, who stole his most prized possession. Thorin could have had your head on a pike. Making you serve him? Understandable. But after the march and your arguments with him, why hasn’t he done more? Taking Gondor with an army had always been the plan. Why is he going to such lengths to keep you alive if it has no purpose? Thorin is fond of you, lass. Even if he doesn’t know it.”

Bilba just shook her head. 

“But why me?” 

Why was she so special? Thorin had traveled across Middle Earth, seen the world over. Bilba? She was a Baggins of Bag End. A gentle-hobbit. She had found Thorin’s curiosity useful, but how could it amount to anything?

“That’s an excellent question,” Balin agreed. “And Thorin himself probably couldn’t tell you. Perhaps he respects your loyalty to your people, or your bravery, or your talent. Maybe he finds you funny and enjoys your company. Or, more likely, it is because your unwavering non-violence is unlike anything he has seen before. Thorin will be the last person in Middle Earth to admit it, lass, but he is infatuated with you.”

“So he threatens me?!” 

And her nephew, people, and homeland, Bilba wanted to add. 

“What else is he to do? Never before has Thorin cared for someone in a way he couldn’t explain through logic. Yet he has every reason to hate you and kill you, but he doesn’t. At first, he probably thought it was lust, so he intimidated you. But if it was just physical attraction he could have done what he liked and tossed you away. But no, he enjoys you, Miss Baggins, you as a person. He is intrigued and smitten and hates the very fact.”

Bilba’s heart pounded and the air seemed thin. This couldn’t be true. It couldn’t. There was no way—

“Did Dori tell you about dwarven Ones?” Balin asked after a moment. Bilba nodded absentmindedly. “I hope he mentioned the protectiveness and possessiveness. Dwarves are quite defensive of their treasures. Thorin, oddly enough, has never believed in it. He’s always thought of the idea of ‘Ones’ as foolish. Young lovers wanting to put meaning to their sudden feelings. But I have seen it for myself. And I think he has found his.” 

Bilba’s head snapped up like a whip. Wide, scared eyes drilled into Balin. 

“You can’t be saying that I’m—that we’re—“

“Two parts to one whole? Dwarves are said to be made in pairs. We spend our lives searching for our other half, the one who completes us. And our Makers are married, Mistress Hobbit.”

“We’re complete opposites!” 

“Which is hardly unheard of for dwarf couples. Most of the time they seemed like the exact same person, or have no similarities to speak of.” Balin held out his hands on either side of him, moving them like scales. “Thorin has a bloodlust. You are a pacifist.” He flattened each of his thumbs against his palms. “He has a heart of stone. You care for all living things.” His forefingers curled down. “He lives beneath a mountain. You live under the sun. A killer and a healer. Conqueror and Burglar.” Balin’s hands, now closed into fists, came together and his fingers intertwined. “It’s life and death, lass. Constantly in a state of battle, but each one unable to exist without the other. And you are Thorin’s One.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Winter is on its way. And its bringing an army with it...


	19. Where Sickness Thrives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait y'all. Hopefully this makes up for it.   
> We learn more about hobbits. And Belladonna.   
> And guess who guest-stars?

“Auntie Bilba! Look what Mister Bofur made me!” Frodo exclaimed as he dashed through the halls. The snow had fallen thickly the night before and the dwarves were spending their day inside. It was close-quarters but the extra bodies kept Bag End warm. 

“Oh? What’s that love?” Bilba asked absent-mindedly as she hefted a laundry basket to the wash. She glanced over her shoulder with a fond smile to see what her boy was playing with, and nearly tripped over her own feet. 

It was a sword. A tiny, wooden sword, but a weapon nonetheless. 

Frodo was running with it, beaming like he’d been handed a whole cake. That was, until he tripped. 

Bilba’s heart nearly stopped and she immediately dropped the basket to leap to her child’s side. The warmer clothes he had on offered more protection; thick knits and even socks were common around the cold months, and Frodo just jumped to his feet, unfazed, and apparently unharmed by the toy blade. 

“Frodo, love…” Bilba said almost frantically, hands shaking, “Why don’t you see what Ori is writing about today? I’m sure he’d love to tell you about it. You should just give me that and get him a cup of tea.”

“Okay, Auntie!” he agreed happily. Ori’s tales of far off places never cease to entertain him. When Bilba was a child, her mother told her all sorts of stories about the adventures Gandalf took her on. Mountains and cities, rivers and forests, there was always something about the world outside the Shire that Bilba relished. Frodo may not have been her child by blood, but he certainly had her spirit. 

Frodo easily handed the wee sword to Bilba, who quickly got it out of his reach atop a high cabinet. After making sure Frodo was tucked away with Ori in her study, the hobbitess stormed to the sitting room. 

The dwarves were not too fond of the cold weather themselves, more used to the forge-heated mountains and mines. Their furs were thick and insulating, but none felt like venturing out in this weather. Seated about the sitting rooms, telling old anecdotes of their younger years, the dwarves were in for a shock when their host stomped in. Not all of the dwarves were present; Ori was with Frodo and Bombur was snacking in the kitchen, not to mention Thorin was off brooding somewhere as he had been the past few days. It was a little disconcerting. 

“Whose idea was it to give Frodo a sword?” Bilba snapped. Reigning in her temper was probably a good idea, but this was too much. Bofur shrugged, though his eyes were widened fearfully.

“Most dwarf kids get swords, lass,” he defended. “Didn’t think it was such a big deal.” 

“Yes, but Frodo is not a dwarf,” she growled back. “He is a hobbit and hobbits to not play with _swords_. The poor lad nearly poked his eye out!” 

“Oh, come on, Bilba!” Kíli shouted. “Me and Fíli were smaller than him when we got our first swords! And they were iron! We’re no worse for wear.” 

“Let me repeat, Frodo is not a dwarf,” Bilba scowled. “Hobbits are not as thick-skinned as dwarves, nor as hard-headed, and certainly not warriors-in-training. Making toys out of weapons is asking for trouble!”

“Miss Baggins, I understand your concern for the lad, but Frodo is a smart boy and the blade is barely sharpened. Do you really think he could seriously harm himself?” Balin asked calmly, and Bilba took a deep breath, trying to not let her anger overcome her anymore. 

“It’s possible,” she defended, “but it’s not the only thing that worries me.” The frustration left her with a sigh, and sat down next to Bofur, rubbing her temples. “Please understand that hobbits, culturally, have little in common with you dwarves. You’ve seen our festivals, you know. No one grows up to be a warrior; they’re farmers and seamstresses and bakers. The closest any hobbit gets to a blade is in the kitchen. Axes are for chopping wood. Hammers are for building fences and homes. Nobody hunts, nobody _fights_ …” Bilba shook her head, putting her face in her hands. “Having a weapon…it’s just not done! It’s bad luck and definitely not what I want to put in Frodo’s head. He’s had a rough enough childhood as it is.” 

A few of the dwarves’ shoulders slumped as they began to see her reasoning. Bofur laid a gentle hand on her back. 

“Okay, lass,” he agreed. “No more weapons for the wee one. We’ll ask next time.” Bilba glanced up at him with a grateful smile, and Bofur’s grin faltered at the sight. 

“Thank you,” she said with obvious honesty, and rose and left the room. Most of the dwarves shared looks of surprise or admonishment, until Nori elbowed Bofur. 

“Eh, no staring, Bo. It’s impolite,” the thief said sarcastically after watching Bofur stare at the hobbit as she strode away and then gazing at the space she had vacated. 

“What? Oh, shove off, you. Just thought I saw something, is all.”

“And what did you think you saw?” Dwalin drawled skeptically. Bofur glanced back at the hall Bilba had exited through, suspicion nagging at him. 

“If it didn’t sound so odd,” Bofur said, brows knitted in confusion, “I would have sworn there were tears in her eyes.”

Balin’s brow jumped as more of the dwarves glanced at Bilba’s exit. Her reaction to the sword was most certainly unexpected, though understandable. But tears? 

A worried look spread amongst the dwarves, all silently agreeing to drop the subject. 

But fate, as it tends to, chose a different path. 

Just that evening, the dwarves congregated after dinner in the sitting room once more, this time accompanied by Ori, Bombur, and their fearless leader. Bilba had felt nervous about sitting amongst them, but Bofur insisted and she sat comfortably on the couch. 

These were not the violent and murderous dwarves that had invaded the Shire months ago, Bilba believed. Still strong and stubborn and proud, but their souls were healing. The darkness was fading. Bofur was a true friend, as were Dori and Ori, and the others were all close to her heart. Frodo was treated with kindness and concern, and Balin always had good advice when Bilba felt frightened. 

With thirteen dwarves running about, Bag End was full again. Warm again. Maybe they weren’t really a family, but Bilba and the Company were something. 

The hobbitess was just rising to get another cup of tea when Frodo came sprinting in gleefully. 

With. His. Sword. 

Bilba’s gasp was so loud the entire group heard it, and spun to see her scooping it right out of Frodo’s hand. The boy cried out in complaint, but his aunt only shook her head. 

“I’m sorry, Frodo, but this is one toy that you can’t keep,” Bilba said sternly. His shoulders slumped and he slunk across the room to sit with Fíli and Kíli. The brothers struggled to not coo at the faunt’s pouting. “Now who gave him this?” Bilba growled like a mother bear. 

“I did,” Thorin declared, crossing his arms. His icy eyes burned into hers, but she didn’t back down. “And I am curious why you would deny your child an innocent toy.” Bilba snorted. 

“I guess we have different definitions of the word ‘innocent’,” she replied darkly. “But you wouldn’t know. We hobbits have very specific feelings about carrying weapons and none of them are positive. So please excuse me for stopping my nephew from receiving thirty different scoldings.” 

Entirely confused, the dwarves glanced at each other looking for answers. Balin had an eyebrow cocked in surprise and Fíli pushed a few of his knives deeper into his jacket. 

“None of the hobbits have complained about our armaments,” Thorin commented. 

“Because we don’t care what you dwarves do. Another race’s tastes are not controlled by our own, and we respect others’ choices. But understand that for hobbits, seeing one of our own with a blade will only bring up bad memories, and we needn’t be reminded of those,” Bilba snapped, temper rising. Forges seemed to blaze in her eyes and her knuckles were white around the toy sword. Bofur’s gaze flicked between her and Thorin worriedly while most of the other dwarves sat stone-still, attempting to ignore the thick tension. Thorin squinted in suspicion, a scowl forming over his features. 

“Perhaps we would understand better if you _explained_ why hobbits are so opposed to arming themselves,” he snarled commandingly. Bilba’s glare became thunderous, fists and jaw clenching with fury. 

“Frodo, go get ready for bed,” she ordered quietly. The boy didn’t need to be told twice. He rushed out of the room and the dwarves looked at Bilba questioningly. 

Grabbing the bottom edge of her blouse, she abruptly pulled it up to the gasps of the dwarves who swiftly averted their eyes. Even Thorin flushed for a moment before steeling his gaze. Truly, she had only pulled it high enough to see a slip of her mid-section, but the fabric revealed something ghastly. 

Three long, jagged scars curled around the right side of her waist, the pale pink tissue mutilated into thick, twisted lines. The Company, each with their fair share of battle scars, stared in shock. The old wounds were covered as quickly as they were shown, but none of the dwarves would be forgetting the sight anytime soon. 

“Who— _what_ did that, lass?” Dwalin asked, torn between feeling pained for his wee hostess and feeling murderous towards whatever had hurt her. 

“Wargs. Wargs and orcs,” she answered coldly. Bilba met Thorin’s gaze with a stony glower. “You’re not the first to invade the Shire, Thorin Oakenshield. Twenty years late, I’m afraid. There was a winter like this one, colder than any year before, with more snow, more ice, and no clear roads in or out. We thought freezing to death was the worst we had to fear, but no. The Brandywine River froze over, and those monsters attacked us like we were sheep in a pasture!” She could hear her voice crack, but Bilba refused to stop. It flooded out like a broken dam, and the dwarves watched as she seethed and boiled over. “Every night, wargs tearing at the doors, orcs breaking the windows—and what did we have? Frying pans, trowels, the odd scythe. And every morning we would have to go out and find the bodies of whatever families locks didn’t hold. It took us weeks to get a message out, and it took even longer for Gandalf and the rangers to get through the snow. By then, winter was almost over and…and…” Bilba broke off, tears piling in her eyes as she choked down her own sobs. 

“Lass, you don’t have to…” Bofur said gently, but she waved him off. 

“All our smials were boarded up after the first few attacks, but their swords could still break through,” Bilba continued softly, voice strangled and pained, “so on the winter solstice, the longest night of the year, a number of hobbits decided to make a stand.” Eyes widened around the room as dread shivered down spines. “My mother led them. When she was young, Gandalf had taken her on adventures east. She was the best fighter, the only one a real sword. The others had butcher’s knives and sharp shovels, but they thought they could make a difference. I had always dreamed of being like my mother, an adventuress. I was so young and foolish I thought this was a chance to prove myself. It was easy to follow their tracks in the snow, and when they saw me with the skewer it was too late to turn me away.” 

The hobbit went silent for a moment, wringing her hands. 

“And?” Balin prompted gently. Bilba stared at her hands. 

“It was a _bloodbath_. Hobbits were getting ripped apart left and right. Their leader, he went after my mother and just…toyed with her. The thing was three times her size! I tried to help but…by the time the sun came up, she was gone. As were most of the others.” Swallowing hard, she forced herself to finish. “I know you dwarves see weapons as objects of protection, but they are ghosts that haunt our worst nightmares.”

Silence reigned over the still room for a long time. Exhaustion weighed Bilba down to where she barely wanted to rise. Emotions tumbled around her heart and those of the dwarves. All were seasoned warriors with enough horror stories to fill libraries, but a chord was struck deep within them. 

It had never occurred to any of the dwarves what it might feel like to have their lands invaded, ravaged. To see their people attacked and slaughtered with little to defend themselves? Unimaginable. 

Thorin’s gaze migrated to the hobbitess, whose arms were wrapped around herself in an attempt for comfort. When he had conquered other lands, there was always an idea of justification in his mind. So many of the villages and kingdoms they entered were ruled by greedy, corrupt governors. He was able to pick new leaders from his officers or even from the peoples themselves. But hobbits? What darkness could be found amongst them? 

What had they done to deserve such a fate? 

The king said nothing, nor did anyone else. 

\----------------------------------------------------------

The winter continued to get worse over the next week, and many of the dwarves noticed the growing anxiety of their host. Whenever Bilba’s eyes drifted to the windows or doors there was always a look of dread, even after most of the paths around Hobbiton were cleared by dwarven soldiers. Neither she nor Frodo went outside anymore, just getting food from the large stores in her cellars or buying it off any odd hobbit who passed Bag End with a cart. Ori and Dori spent more of their time knitting and gave many of their works to passing officers to disperse amongst the hobbits, while Dwalin and Gloin chopped large amounts of firewood. Despite the dwarves’ valiant efforts and good will, the hobbits of the Shire still watched the nights with fear in their hearts and many grew pale from the lack of sunlight. 

Frodo became far clingier to Bilba than he had been in the warmer months. He was still disappointed about the sword, though Bilba hadn’t thrown it out yet for lack of opportunity. It sat hidden away in her study to be tossed out at the first sign of spring. 

Evenings, which Bilba had once devoted to relaxing smokes outside, were now spent in front of the fire with Frodo and a few of the dwarves. Nights were long and frigid, and Frodo began to share his aunt’s bedroll for warmth. 

But it was the evening of the winter solstice that found Bilba cuddled up with her nephew under blankets before the fire. Bofur, Dori, Ori, and Balin were resting around as well, taking in the serene quiet. Balin read as Dori and Ori knitted, and Bofur whittled a new, more ‘hobbit-appropriate’ toy. 

Bilba ran her fingers through Frodo’s black curls as he snoozed dazedly in her lap. In the peaceful moment, the hobbit wondered how her life had come to this, how everything went so wrong so fast. 

But she could make it through this. She would make it through this. Frodo needed her to. 

A soft sigh escaped her, and then she gasped loudly as her world came crashing down again. 

A shooting, echoing howl cut through the sound of the wind like a siren, a yowl Bilba had heard before. The dwarves jumped to alertness as she pulled Frodo against her. 

“Yavanna, no,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone. Praying wouldn’t help. She had tried it last time. 

The other dwarves came storming into the large room a second later in various states of armament. Thorin looked like a storm cloud, dark and glowering, and his hand was clenched around the pommel of his sword. 

“Was that a wolf?” Ori asked nervously. 

“That was no wolf,” Fíli scowled, sharing a look with his uncle. Frodo, awoken by the stomping, glanced up at his aunt fearfully.

“They’re back,” she gasped, horrified. “They’ve come back.” 

“They can’t be far,” Balin added. “And those wargs will travel fast. What do we do, my King?” 

Thorin said nothing, a hard look of concentration on his face as he stared into the fire. His stern countenance displayed his disgust for the orcs, but would he risk the lives of his men for the hobbits? The Company members slowed their talking until all that could be heard was the crackle of the fire. It was enough to get Bilba out of her shock. 

“You are going to do something?” Bilba asked quickly, setting Frodo on the couch as she stood. Thorin didn’t react. Bilba’s eyes widened with panic, her voice wet with terror. “If you don’t fight them the hobbits won’t last the night!” 

Thorin suddenly spun to face her, stone-faced and silent. The hobbit gulped, tears building in her eyes from desperation. The Shire would not survive another war like the Fell Winter. 

“Dwalin,” he ordered, “gather the troops. That filth shall not touch this place.” 

Thorin watched as Bilba beamed with relief, and something stirred in his dark heart for having caused that. 

In minutes, the dwarves were marching out of Bag End and spreading out to awaken the warriors. Bilba tucked Frodo into bed and promised everything would be alright come morning. When she locked the doors after the Company had left, she actually believed it. 

Blowing out the candles to hide her presence from any monster that may get close, Bilba had no trouble staying awake. Her nerves were on edge and she jumped at every noise. The howls continued, but they varied in volume and distance, but between them and the dwarves’ movement, Bilba knew every hobbit in the Shire must have been awake. 

The orcs had returned, but the hobbits weren’t alone anymore. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------

The dwarves trudged through the knee-high snow, furs and coat wrapped around them in heaps. The conditions were in the wargs’ favor, but the orcs would be weakened and slowed by the cold. They did not have the skill dwarven seamstresses were born with. Axes and swords and hammers had been ripped from the closets they had been hidden in, and were hauled over the white hills to battle. 

The outer areas of the Shire near the Brandywine River were a mix of fields and forests, but not unlike other lands the dwarves had battled on. The Company was at the forefront, led by their King. 

There would be blood on the snow tonight, but it would not be the hobbits’. 

Waiting on the high ground, Thorin and his small army listened as the howls and growls grew closer, and soon they could see the outline of the beasts in the moonlight that made the snow gleam. Undisturbed, the snow was still smooth and shiny, and the trees and bushes were draped in ice and frost. Wind that would sting the hobbits’ delicate skin was barely noticed by the war-hardened dwarves, and leather and armor and fur kept out the cold. 

Thorin bellowed for the archers to aim and drew his sword. At the back of his mind he wondered if Bilba would like a warg-skin rug. Perhaps this winter would lie easier in her memory. 

Back at Bag End, Bilba was hoping it would. Even with dwarven protection, she worried for the safety of her people. The lack of fire chilled her smial, and Bilba strode to her study. She kept a set of gloves in there for writing on cold days and needed something to stop her from wringing her wrists raw. 

It was just a fleeting thought, certainly not one she’d actually entertain, but the hobbit wondered if Frodo might sleep better with his toy sword. It couldn’t hurt for just one night, and it might make him feel safe. She barely glanced in the direction of the shelf she’d left it on, but even in the darkness she could make out the space where it was supposed to be. Where it wasn’t. 

Bilba had never run faster when she sprinted to Frodo’s room, which she too found lacking a certain something. Namely, her nephew. 

It only took her a moment to check the backdoor, which was unlocked despite her having locked and double-checked it. 

It was as if the world had fallen out from under her feet. Like she had been punched in the gut and the air had been sucked from her lungs. Her heart was in her throat, and Bilba opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out. 

Her little boy, her Frodo. 

Deep, deep in her heart, something snapped. It was not unlike the way the dwarves each became what they were, but instead of darkness and cold apathy setting in, something else awakened in her heart. 

The hobbits, for all their noble kindness and pacifism, were not free from ignorance. Their peaceful years had let them forget a few things. Ever since the Fell Winter, violence was merely a heart-breaking memory they shunned. They remembered the death and the pain and the blood, but not why the small group of hobbits fought. They forgot why Bullroarer Took and his fellow hobbits had volunteered to ride out and fight the Goblin hordes. The hobbits of the Shire had ingrained it into their minds that violence was a result of hate, the child of cruelty and mercilessness. The orcs and wargs were perfect examples. And in their desperation to forget the horrors they had suffered and to create a new life for themselves, the hobbits willingly left behind one basic fact. 

There is nothing in the world more motivating than love. 

Bilba took a deep breath and walked through her smial towards the front door, or more specifically, her mother’s glory box. It was a hefty cedar chest, mostly filled with jewelry and lacey things from Belladonna’s wedding. One other thing was hidden at the bottom, the only sign of a life left behind. 

A sword. 

Belladonna had put it away after she and Bungo married. She had gotten her fair share of adventures and wanted a family. Back then, the hobbits hadn’t approved of adventuring all that much, they made you late for dinner! But Tooks were wild ones, so no one said too much about having a sword in the smial, as long as it was out of any faunt’s reach. 

Bilba wasn’t a little girl anymore. 

She pulled the short, sheathed blade out from the chest. Gripping the sheath in one hand and the hilt in another, she unveiled the blade in one swoop. 

Its blue glow lit up the smial. A shiver ran down her spine but Bilba steeled herself. 

The orcs had killed her mother. 

They would not take Frodo. 

\------------------------------------------------

The battle was raging on the hillside, the sounds of clanging metal and splintering wood filling the air. The dwarves were holding their ground well, with few dead or injured. Thorin was in the forested area, Oakenshield in one hand and Orcrist in the other. Slashing his way through orc after orc, he could almost grin. Living in the Shire was restful and merry, but he had missed this. 

Members of the Company entered and exited his view at different moments. Kíli and Ori were among the archers over the hill, while Fíli and Nori were back to back with their knives out like claws. Dwalin and Balin were powerful as ever, slicing, hacking, and head-butting their way through the orc ranks. Oin was caring for the wounded as his brother guarded them, and Dori and Bombur barreled over wargs with their strength. Bofur and Bifur were smashing and stabbing their way wildly, and even from a distance Thorin could see the mad glint sparking in their eyes once more. 

Victory was close. 

He would return to Hobbiton a savior, and Bilba would be his. He would be a hero and she would be so grateful that—what was that in the distance?

It was hard to see against the white snow; a large, pale figure approaching on an equally pale warg. Dwarves were heading towards it to fight and—

They were tossed aside like rag dolls. 

It couldn’t be…

But even from the forest Thorin recognized the filth. Azog. 

That scum had survived Azanulbizar and come to the Shire. 

Thorin glared like a thundercloud as he charged past the trees, hate and rage fueling him. 

The other dwarves watched as their King charged and was immediately slammed into the ground by the pale warg’s paw. 

Using his shield as a support, the conqueror haggardly tried to rise, but the pale orc returned and struck him across the chest with his heavy mace. Orcs surrounded the two fighters, keeping the Company and army from helping their leader. The pale warg’s jaw clenched around the King, and Thorin hollered in agony. For every orc the dwarves cut down, two rose to take its place. They could not reach their ruler, only watch and fight as the beast tossed him to the side like a chew toy. 

The warg approached once more, ready to finish him, when a small, completely unnoticed being stepped between them. Thorin’s mind was fogged with pain, but he could make out the tiny figure. Black curls, a miniscule wooden sword, and a high-pitched battle cry that sounded terrified. 

“Frodo…” Thorin murmured weakly, waving his arm against the ground in hopes of reaching his sword, but he could barely move. Azog merely grinned. He hadn’t been able to enter these lands in decades, but this was more than worth the wait. His people, driven out of their mountains by the dragon, would feast upon the halflings for months, and he would finally have the head of his most hated enemy. 

He goaded his ride forward, knowing she could eat the faunt in one mouthful, when a flash of golden-brown crossed his vision and his warg jumped back with blood leaking from a slash on its nose. 

Another hobbit, silent in the snow and quick as a mouse, had appeared between him and his prize. Azog laughed deeply, boomingly, reminded of the hobbits he had massacred so many moons ago. They had lined up like cattle for slaughter. 

Bilba remembered him as well, the white orc that smashed her mother’s chest in. Hobbits torn apart by wargs, hacked to death, all because of this _filth_. This was the creature that filled hobbits’ nightmares. This was the beast that made her father fade from heartbreak. This orc was what made the Children of Yavanna afraid of the dark.

Her sword radiated light like the sun and pointed right at the monster’s heart, just as hate and rage began to fill hers. Bilba would not back down, not fail like last time, and she would have her revenge. 

Azog, amused by the tiny being’s resistance, dismounted his warg. He would do this personally. 

Gripping his mace in one hand he bared down on the three short beings, grinning as he heard the smallest whimper in fear. The female followed his movements with her pathetic excuse for a sword, but her eyes were filled with burning fury. That was new. 

He swung heavy, aiming for her head, but the halfling ducked swiftly. So this one had some sense. Azog glanced at the child next to her, and her eyes followed. 

Bilba jumped in front of Frodo without hesitation, glaring murderously at the orc. 

“You will not touch him,” she hissed. Azog swung down powerfully and the hobbits jumped back, falling over Thorin who grunted in pain. Bilba’s eyes flicked from the conqueror to her nephew, both with such dark hair and icy blue eyes. A hundred thoughts ran through her head: how the two are so similar and so very different, that both had to live through the night, but most important of all, that killing Azog wouldn’t change anything. 

Her mother was dead, along with dozens of other hobbits. Vengeance couldn't change the past, but it would change her. 

But Bilba could save others. That’s what mattered. That was worth fighting for. 

And as Azog swung once more, angrily, egotistically, Bilba saw her chance. 

_“There’s no such thing as good violence,” Belladonna said to her fauntling daughter, “but there can be necessary violence, when all other options are gone.”_

Love was the reason Belladonna had died that night. Saving the lives of those she cared about. That was worth dying for. 

Bilba knew she would never be the same afterwards, that maybe she would turn into one of the Company, but she had one choice to make. Was Frodo worth _killing_ for? 

Azog didn’t have a chance to react as Bilba leapt up and plunged her mother’s sword through his heart. It stuck there, even as she darted away and the orc fell to his knees, and then down into the snow. Black blood spilled out his back and front, his chest pierced straight through. 

The orcs, upon not hearing any screaming or death, glanced back to see their dead leader and shrieked in surprise. The dwarves rallied anew. Dwalin crushed the skull of the pale warg, and the Company raced to protect their leader. 

But Bilba just fell to the ground, shaking without control. She crawled backward through the snow to Thorin and Frodo, staring at Azog’s limp form. What had she done? 

“Auntie Bilba,” Frodo whispered, poking her side. “Mr. Thorin needs help.” She gazed at the boy blankly, then remembered how Thorin had been gnawed on. 

“Right, right,” she said, and began shouting for a medic. Oin was at her side in an instant and started treating Thorin immediately, piling on snow to help numb the pain. Bilba assisted where she could, but still saw the Company battle around her. 

Fíli was hacking through orcs like a lion, dual-wielding swords with black blood caking his golden mane. Balin sliced through the monsters with skilled precision, merciless and fast. Dori was breaking necks with his bare hands as Ori skewered orcs with his knitting needles. Dwalin stayed close to his King, roaring death threats at any beast that came near, while Kíli guarded from afar with his arrows. Nori and Bifur were killing any orc or warg that entered their eyesight, and Gloin was cutting off heads like he was born to. Bombur was crushing skulls with his spoon, and his brother—

Oh, Bofur. Sweet, funny Bofur was slaughtering any creature that crossed his path, grinning like a madman the entire time. It was butchery, the carnage he dealt with his mattock. His striped scarf was splattered with blood, and his wide, toothy smile was frightening enough to make Bilba gulp. 

The orcs weren’t the only ones who had returned. 

Eventually, the orcs retreated and the dwarves drove them back beyond the river. The wounded were taken to all the hobbit healers and were treated with care and respect. The hobbits, as disgusted as they were by violence, were grateful for what the dwarves had done. 

Thorin, while badly wounded, was stable and carried back to Bag End on a stretcher and laid in his bed. The Company was fine with little more than scratches and bruises, and decided to celebrate their victory with ale and partying. Bilba rested in the only quiet room in the house with Frodo sleeping in her arms. Thorin slept in the bed between them and the door, wrapped in bandages and blankets. Despite the circumstances, he looked peaceful like this, his usual glower replaced with relaxed muscles and soft breathing. 

Balin had described them as opposites. He said Thorin had a bloodlust and a heart of stone and was a killer. He called Bilba a pacifist who cared for all living thing and lived under the sun. 

But both of them had taken lives to save others. 

In the dark, cold room, Bilba cried silently as she wondered if they were really so different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are always welcome!


	20. The End of the Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACK BABY

Thorin awoke to sounds of chirping birds and the smells of a large, savory breakfast. The sunlight, for the first time in months, was unfazed by clouds and beamed through the windows, warming the bedroom. A few soft voices came in and out of his hearing from somewhere in Bag End, but the scent of bacon and eggs and plenty of other delicious meals permeated his room. 

His eyelids heavy, vision blurred, the wounded warlord struggled to remain conscious. It felt like an oliphaunt had stepped on his chest. In truth, it had only been a warg, but such things are relative.

The bruises that surely covered his torso were hidden under thick, cottony bandages, and were only mildly aching. Oin had probably filled him with enough painkillers to knock out a Man. His wrists felt sprained or strained at the very least, and he could taste blood in his mouth. 

But he was alive. And he was in Bag End, tended to and healing, without any of the rampant noises that came from a healer’s tent during a battle. So victory was his. 

How? He could barely remember. Thorin knew he had been fighting in a forest, but after that…some orc attacked him? A very large, very pale orc, with a white warg—

Azog.

That filth had returned, new arm and all. His mount had slammed Thorin into the ground, but then how was he still here? The Company hadn’t been able to get to him—he could remember that much—but then how…

There had been a small figure, yes, it was coming back to him now. A tiny thing, with black curls and a wooden sword. But…but it couldn’t have been…Frodo? 

Thorin’s brows knit together in worry. No, no, the child could not have been hurt! The lad did not deserve to die! Why had he given him the sword?! Bilba was right, and now Frodo was…wait. 

Thorin shook his head, desperately trying to clear his thoughts. Frodo hadn’t died. There had been no scream, no blood. Another fighter had gotten between them and Azog. Yes, yes, that was right! It had been like a golden flash, holding a sword of blue light, slashing at Azog’s warg. 

His savior had not been wearing armor, though. Just normal winter clothes. A hobbit? 

But what hobbit knew how to fi—

“Oh Mahal,” he wheezed. Thorin could barely breathe, chest painfully tight, but he had to get up, had to see her, had to know.

Thorin shoved himself up on his elbows, blankets falling down to pool at his waist. He could feel stitches in his skin pulling as he moved. Blood rushed to his head and nausea swept over him. 

His jaw clenched and he panted through his nose. If Bilba was hurt…

Bare feet touched the cool floor, and Thorin took one final deep breath before he put his weight on them. 

To immediately crash to the ground when his knees buckled. 

The conqueror let out a strangled shout, pain and frustration flooding his mind. He was going to have that filth’s head on his wall. There were a few moments where he could hear scrambling footsteps in the halls, before Oin and Balin came rushing in, albeit grinning. 

“I thought a strategist of your skill would know better than to try to walk with your injuries,” Oin said dryly. The older dwarves hooked their arms under his and hefted the warrior back onto the bed, snorting at his irritated grunts. Thorin begrudgingly let Oin check over his bandages, staring with distaste at his own signs of weakness. 

“If it makes you feel any better, most of the others won’t be getting up any time soon either. Ale defeated more dwarves last night than any orc,” Balin smirked. “You’ll be glad to know that all the Company members are healthy and hale, at worst hung over.”

“And the halfing?” Thorin demanded, though it came out much like a bark when Oin poked his side. The healer glanced back at Balin and the elders shared a look, before Balin nodded to the door. Their king watched them with growing anxiety, swallowing as Balin pulled over a plush seat at the bed side. “What happened?” he demanded, gripping the covers with white knuckles. 

“Don’t worry, my king, she’s unharmed. Not even a bruise.” Thorin let out a sigh of relief, sinking into the bed. 

“And Frodo?” 

“Safe and sound, and taking all things well, considering. Hasn’t left his aunt’s side since they arrived home after the battle, but I don’t know how much he understands of last night. He’ll have nightmares, but our young hobbit is a resilient lad.”

The hint of a smile tugged at the edge of Thorin’s lips. The hobbits were small and delicate, but unexpectedly enduring. Frodo was an adventurous lad as well, stubborn and brave. He had potential to be a warrior, or at least a talented spy. 

But Thorin swallowed as less pleasant thoughts came to the forefront of his mind. The soreness in his chest was suffocating and his hard head felt light and floating. He should have known better than to take on the pale orc while he was astride his mount. If that warg was still in one piece he was going to take its skin for a rug. 

“And Azog?” the conqueror asked quietly. Shame was not a feeling he was familiar with, but defeat was an awakening, and Thorin intended to be wiser from it. He was still going to hide his loss behind the overall victory, of course. That was the bit history would remember, if he had anything to say about it. 

“Bilba slew him in battle, protecting you and Frodo,” Balin answered simply, trying in vain to hide his own grin. 

Thorin froze for a moment, before rolling his eyes and glaring at the other dwarf. Oh Mahal’s balls, like that hobbit could kill that orc. He snorted at the thought. 

“It’s true,” Balin affirmed, shrugging. “Put her sword through his heart. Then watched over you and her boy all night until the warriors pushed the orcs past the river. None of us would have believed it had we not saw it with our own eyes. Nori is claiming much of the credit, as her main teacher.”

“You want me to believe that The Defiler was felled in battle by a mere hobbit and she does not bare a scratch?” Thorin scoffed in derision. If he had not managed to fell his sworn enemy, that peace-loving halfling could do no better. She was a thief, a liar, but Mahal knows she wasn’t a killer. Balin nodded despite his king’s doubt, chuckling to himself. 

“I do, for that is what happened. Bilba executed him with all the ferocity of a loyal soldier, and remained by your side until our victory was secured. Ask any dwarf; her story will be known by every soul in the Shire by lunch.”

Thorin shook his head in disbelief, eyes wide as he fell back into the pillows. He scanned the wooden ceiling as he tried to imagine the battle after he lost consciousness, almost searching the beams above him for answers. How could Bilba kill that monster? How could she kill anything? That weak little mistress…She was a comely lass, clever and caring, but a murderer? 

After all the argument the hobbitess and her people protested in the defense of peaceful means, what could possibly have driven her to such lengths?

Wrath against the orcs? No. The fear in her heart from the Fell Winter was far too much. But if it wasn’t hate, if fury was not her driving force, what could have been? What could sway such a stubborn hobbit? 

“But as I was saying,” Balin continued, “given Miss Baggins’ past experiences with orcs, and her actions of the past night, I think she may be suffering. She betrayed the hobbits’ manners of pacifism and I do not know what ramifications may come of it, from her people or her own mind. And the Company’s celebrating last night did little to help the situation.” Thorin’s cocked brow was enough to prompt him to elaborate, and Balin sighed as he did so. “The lads were a bit…euphoric after the victory. Bofur and the princes especially. There will be blood and ale in their clothes for weeks, I’m sure.” 

The king rolled his eyes. Trust his own nephews to lose control. Sure, a feast was normal after any successful battle, but they usually waited until their own leader was there to begin. And Bofur—oh, Thorin knew how the miner acted at parties. Ripped meats apart like they were enemies, sang limericks full of gore, all very entertaining for the most part, but it seemed unlikely that the hobbit would see it as such. 

“What is the situation amongst the ranks?” Thorin enquired, his voice raspier than he would care to think about. 

“No fatalities, as far as I’ve heard,” Balin reported. “A few bad injuries here and there, but for the most part the soldiers are well. And the wounded ones have never been so well cared for, I’ve been told. The hobbits may not be keen on killing orcs but they’re rather generous to those who have been hurt by them.”

Thorin’s eyes closed as he struggled to ignore the pang in his chest. Oh yes, all the hobbits were all quite grateful for his forces, except one. If only she was so compassionate. It would be his luck to have found the one hobbit who had the bravery to rebel and the power to kill. 

“Bring me the hobbit. I need to speak with her,” Thorin demanded, as commandingly as he could manage. 

“I’ll send a messenger, but it might be a while before she gets back,” Balin replied, getting a piece of parchment to summon their hobbit host. His king’s head snapped up.

“What? Where is she?” 

“Miss Baggins took Frodo off to her grandmother’s. She wanted to make sure everyone was alright,” Balin explained. “After last night, I imagine it would do her some good to be around her own kind for a bit.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

“We have a plan,” Adamanta Took declared. 

Numerous hobbits had come to the Great Smials from all the clans, asking for news. Laura Baggins and Gorbadoc Brandybuck had come, along with Rory and dozens of others. Everyone was exchanging news; all the hobbits were alive, safe and sound, but also curious as to what was to come. Were they safe? Or in debt? 

Frodo was playing with his cousins, each rejoicing at finally seeing their friends again. The dwarves were elsewhere, watching the borders or tending to wounded, so the hobbits were able to relax. 

And conspire, as it were. 

“What? What sort of plan?” Bilba asked anxiously, leaning forward. The Thain, the heads of each clan, and other important or influential hobbits were sitting tensely around Adamanta’s dining table. Travel had been made easier by the dwarves stomping their way through the snow the previous night, but most were still bundled up in coats and scarves, feet pink from the cold. 

Adamanta gazed at her granddaughter, looking years older than she had at the festival. The dwarves’ report of the battle had been unbelievable at first, entirely impossible, but the more who repeated it with matching details and honest vigor, the more she came to wonder if it was true. When the other hobbits reached her home, each bearing the same story as told by the dwarves, the Took matriarch had to accept it. Bilba had been one of the last to reach her smial, and the elder hobbits had come to a decision in her absence. But as she watched her granddaughter, all maternal-tenderness and familial concern, Adamanta knew she couldn’t say it. 

Bilba’s question was left unanswered as the other hobbits shared distressed looks, until Rory spoke up from across the table. 

“We’re sneaking you out,” he admitted, softly but unapologetic. Bilba’s face twisted with confusion, before morphing into anger. 

“You’re what?” 

“We’re sneaking you out of the Shire,” Rory repeated, leveling her with a stubborn glance. “You and Frodo. The roads are clearing up, so we can get you two out in a hay-cart before the dwarves notice a thing.” 

Bilba stared into his brown eyes like he was speaking gibberish. 

“And just _why_ are you doing this?” she asked, raising an eyebrow and glancing around at the amassed hobbits. 

“Bilba,” Adamanta said quietly, “We know what happened last night, and we think it would be for the best if you and Frodo—“

“Pack up and leave?! Why? We’re both fine, the Shire is safe, so what could possibly be the problem?” Bilba exclaimed in alarm. Leave the Shire? Were they mad?!

“Bilba, you know why. Last night, when you—you dashed into a battle!” Gorbadoc answered choppily. 

“As did Frodo,” Laura added. 

“And you killed an orc,” Rory finished, and Bilba was shocked by his tone of voice. He almost sounded sorrowful. 

“So?” Bilba challenged, but her dread was evident. “It was an _orc_. I know how terrible it was, but of all things to be upset about—you want to exile me because I protected my nephew?”

“Yavanna, no! Darling, please understand, this is not a punishment. This is for your own good. And Frodo’s,” Laura said diplomatically. “Think about what happened! Frodo ran out after those dwarves into battle! We don’t blame you for it at all, but he put his own life in great danger all because he wanted to be like those warriors. And you had to go after him.” 

“Those dwarves in Bag End are not normal. They’re worse than the others and they are now influencing young Frodo. And perhaps…you as well,” Adamanta added. 

“Influencing me?” Bilba cried. “The dwarves are doing no such thing. I’ve been trying to turn them to our side for months. I’m not turning into some-some—“

“Warrior?” Gorbadoc offered coldly. “Killer? You murdered that orc in front of my grandson!” 

Bilba gaped at him as her heart skipped a beat. It was so easy to forget Frodo wasn’t hers, not by blood anyway. Gorbadoc had every right to be angry, after losing his daughter…

Rory rested his forehead on his palm, sighing deeply. Primula had been gone for over a year, but the loss had been harder on him. Gorbadoc and his wife had been inconsolable, so as the eldest son he was forced to take of everything. When the topic of Frodo came up, it had been Rory’s choice to give him to Bilba, knowing none of the Brandybucks had the resources to give Frodo the attention he needed. Bilba hadn’t hesitated, but Gorbadoc had never been too happy with Frodo being out of the family. But he was a Baggins as much as Brandybuck, so Bilba had the right. 

“We just think it would be better if you and Frodo got away from them,” Rory said through his grief. Bilba shook her head remorsefully. 

“And go where? Thorin Oakenshield controls everything to the east and Ered Luin and the Blue Mountains are packed with his soldiers to the west. Thorin barely trusts me as it is. If I disappeared, he’d burn the Shire down looking for me. Frodo and I would be caught in a week if we headed south to the plains, and even less if we tried north through the forests. There’s nowhere left to run.”

Hopelessness seemed to sink in until the solemnity of the room was broken as Rory’s clenched fist slammed down onto the table, and the hobbit jumped to his hairy feet as the cutlery clattered. His dark brown eyes were furious and Bilba stared at him in alarm.

“For pities’ sake, Bilba! Stop being blind! That dwarf is as ravenous as any warg and he has been hounding you since him and his dogs invaded! You may not want to think about he has in mind, but I’m not going to let you just sit here and wait for him to get a craving!”

“You think I don’t know how he looks at me? I’ve been counting on it!” she shouted back, rising to her feet as the rest of the hobbits watched the two in silent astonishment. “The biggest reason Thorin hasn’t torn our home apart is because I keep him distracted! And if we want to keep the Shire from being more than a pile of ash, then our only option is to make sure he’s happy. You don’t want to hurt anyone? Fine, good. Don’t let them get to you. But at least let me do what it takes so you still have legs to march on.”

Rory’s eyes widened almost comically, along with all of the other hobbits’. Bilba merely glanced at the rest of them with a scornful look and stormed from the room, shoving her chair loudly behind her. 

The bloody _fools_. Did they truly think her so naïve? Or unable to take care of herself? She had faced down an orc! Bilba wasn’t some sadistic mass-murderer, she was a Baggins of Bag End, and those ignorant farmers could keep their ideas to themselves. The Shire would be safe, whatever happened to her, and Bilba could be content with that. The others didn’t know what they were talking about. This was war; she couldn’t expect a bunch of hobbits to know how to deal with it. 

Blowing hot air out her nose, Bilba clenched her jaw and fists, striding out of the smial in search of fresh air. A few of the smaller hobbits noticed the scowl covering her face, but didn’t really want to ask. When she finally shut the circular door behind her with a thump, the frigid air hit her skin like a wave. The frosty wind washed over her, and suddenly the fury in her heart began to shrink, like flames flickering in a snowstorm. Her breathing slowed, her muscles relaxed, and Bilba shivered as the frustration left her figure. 

She couldn’t really hold it against the hobbits, even if they were an irritating bunch. They were just trying to help. But there was nothing they could do. Bilba was the only one that stood a chance against Thorin, the only hobbit with leverage, and she would do whatever had to be done to save the Shire from dragon fire. Even if Thorin and the dwarves were living peacefully amongst the hobbits now, his wrath was fickle. She wouldn’t let him move her friends and family across Middle Earth because it suited him, and certainly not let him bring Smaug to her homeland. Thorin Oakenshield would be dealt with, one way or another. 

“Bilba! Bilba, come back!” she heard Rory call. The round door opened and shut behind her and Bilba glanced over her shoulder to see him staring at her, concern and confusion written all over his face. “What in Yavanna’s name was that all about?” 

“Was I not clear?” Bilba sighed, turning to face him. Rory could see her previous ire was gone, but her stubbornness was a powerful thing. “Thorin Oakenshield will not yield to peace marches or flower crowns, Rory. He would enslave us or burn the Shire to ash on a whim.”

“And you think you can stop him?” Rory argued. 

“I don’t know!” Bilba exclaimed mournfully. Taking a deep breath, she wrapped her arms around herself for comfort, feeling drained and tired. “But I’m the only one here who has even the smallest prospect of doing so. The dwarves won’t listen to the Thain or the clan leaders; they don’t care! The only hobbit’s opinion that Thorin gives a shilling about is mine, and I can use that!” 

“At what cost?” Rory insisted. “How can you even know for sure, Bilba? How do you know he cares about what you think? Thorin is a dwarf, Bilba. A king and a conqueror and he takes what he wants by force. Sure, maybe he listened to you once or twice in the past, but how can you tell he isn’t just toying with you? And if you are right and he does decide to leave the Shire be, what is he going to demand in return?” Rory looked her in the eyes, frightened at the idea. “I know you’re not some naïve lass. You know what he wants.” Bilba swallowed hard, her throat dry and her stomach turning. 

“I know. I know, Rory. Yet the only other option is to let Thorin run free, and he might raze the Shire and keep me as well. There is no good answer to this. We just have to choose the lesser of two evils.” 

Rory groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose and Bilba stood stoically before him, a Baggins’ stalwartness and a Tooks’ nerve wrapped in knits and a skirt. 

“This isn’t about Belladonna, is it? Tell me this is not some long-hidden conviction about your mother,” Rory entreated. 

“What?” Bilba gasped. “This has nothing to do with her! What are you talking about?” 

“Belladonna Took,” Rory said more forcefully, “your mother, the woman who died saving you from an orc. The hobbit who marched out with a sword to save the Shire and was willing to do whatever it took to keep her home safe—“

“Don’t you dare act as if—“

“As if what? I was there, Bilba. I remember the battle as well as you do and I also remember how much you longed to make her proud. You came after us to stand by her side and now you’re throwing yourself into danger again and for what? So your mother—“

“LEAVE HER _OUT_ OF THIS!” Bilba roared. “This. Is not. About. Her.” Bilba stormed towards her old friend, and Rory stumbled back a step, not expecting her charge. Yes, he had fought the orcs as well, all those years ago. They had fought together and nearly died together, two of the very few survivors of that fateful night. The pale orc, the massacre of the hobbits, the fall of the great Belladonna; Rory had witnessed it all, and Bilba knew it. But he was very, very wrong. “She is dead. I am aware of the fact,” she hissed as she backed him against the door. “This has nothing to do with my mother, you fool of a Brandybuck. This is about protecting the Shire now, not from orcs, but from dwarves. No, she couldn’t stop the orcs’ rampage, and I barely have a chance of stopping Thorin. But there is nothing you can say or do that is going to stop me from trying, so don’t _bother_.” 

“I just—Bilba, I just meant—“ 

“ _Don’t_. I am trying to save the Shire. I am not asking for help. Just stop treating me like I’m insane.”

Bilba glared at him furiously, before pushing past him and entering the smial. In less than a minute, she had Frodo in her arms and was wrapping him up in his coat for the walk home. The hobbits watched her with mixed reactions, some confused, some pitying, and some more than a little frightened. Word spread fast in the Shire. 

As she left, passing a still-stunned Rory by the door, Bilba met her nephew’s eyes. Frodo gazed up at her, saddened by their sudden departure, but unknowing of the near-constant danger he was in. Sapphire-blue eyes, so starkly different from those of another, made her knees feel weak for an equally different reason. 

And when she heard a whispered, ‘I’m sorry’ from behind her, she just quickened her pace. 

“Auntie Bilba, are you okay?” Frodo asked. 

“Just fine, my boy,” she lied. “I’m just fine.”

\------------------------------------------------------------

“It’s not that I’m not happy for you, but you just seem to be taking this a little fast, Thorin,” Balin said, watching Thorin attempt to put his own robes on in vain. The elder dwarf had offered his help, but his king was nothing if not obstinate. “You two have barely been civil for all the months we’ve been here and now you are simply going to propose to her? No courtship at all?”

“Why bother?” Thorin said confidently, his injuries and inability to quickly dress himself not hindering his pride. “I doubted you and Oin when you said she and I were tied together, but now I can see you two are right. Bilba is my One and she will be my queen.”

“Not that I’m displeased with being correct, lad,” Balin continued evenly, “but this is the woman who stole the Arkenstone. The hobbit who nearly blackmailed us all out of her village and has purposefully done everything in her power to stop your takeover. While I would always wish for you to be with your One, you may want to be a little more careful in how you address this. Miss Baggins is a strong-willed woman and loyal to her people, not to mention that she has her boy to think of. She won’t be too keen to just run off into the sunset with you.” 

“She ran off into battle for me,” Thorin answered with a growing smirk. “Miss Baggins, a peace-loving hobbit, killed the pale orc for me. However thick her ties are to the rest of her people, I have obviously grown on her. Perhaps we will have to discuss what will come of her child, but what reason does she have to reject me? I can give her everything she could ever ask for.”

“May I remind you that the orc she killed also murdered her mother, and that when she leapt between you and him, she was also standing between the orc and her nephew? And you are also the dwarf who threatened to turn the hobbits into workhorses and set Smaug on her home. I can’t imagine her forgetting such a thing.” 

Thorin quieted for a moment at that, finally managing to pull his tunic on, and shook his head as his grin took on its usual, merciless countenance. 

“All the more reason for her to agree.”

Balin raised an eyebrow, but nodded. His king’s word was law. If Thorin proposed, what could Miss Baggins do but consent?

“But do not tell the others, Balin. I will address Miss Baggins privately. Keep it a surprise for my dwarves.” 

“Of course. I will keep them busy, though most are still resting. Does Your Majesty need help getting his pants on?” 

Thorin’s glare was answer enough. 

\----------------------------------------------------------

The messenger Balin has sent met Bilba not far from the Great Smials, notifying her of Thorin’s request to speak with her. It was more of an order than a request, but Bilba let herself stroll leisurely just to spite him. When she and Frodo did finally arrive, it was to find most of the dwarves still in bed, with a few bumbling around the kitchen in search of a remedy to their growling stomachs. Oin and Ori both seemed to be functioning normally, reading and knitting in the sitting room, and the younger hobbit was content to play by himself under their supervision. 

Ori met her eye with a cheery smile and Bilba dropped her guard for a moment, until she noticed the small splatter of dried, black blood on his neck. She had never questioned why his knitting needles were so dark in color, and was suddenly glad of it. 

Oin seemed less altered, though she had never spent much time in his presence. The healer was sipping tea and reading a book on herb uses, occasionally scratching his enormous nose. 

Bilba was about to begin ‘looking’ for Thorin (starting with the places he was least likely to be) when Oin spoke. 

“Thorin’s been waiting for ya, lassie. He’s in the study.”

Bilba held back an exasperated sigh and begrudgingly spun on her heel towards her study. When would her life become sane again?

When she opened the door to what had been her sanctuary, she found Thorin calmly flipping through one of her books. Dark blue robes made him stand out against the homey room, and his long dark trusses were cleaned of the blood that had dampened them and interspersed with gold and silver beads. His thick fingers were dotted with rings and soft, dark fur hemmed his clothing. Thorin appeared every inch the king and conqueror he was, but Bilba couldn’t give two cabbages about his looks at that moment. Thorin cocked an eyebrow at her cross expression, but merely smiled. 

The conqueror strode towards the burglar, whom he was sure would soon be his burglar, and quietly shut the door behind her. Bilba tried to ignore how trapped she was, with Thorin standing between her and the door, and focused on the stiffness of his movements. A warg had practically bitten through him and the dwarf was still able to make her nervous. 

“Do you know why I asked you here?” Thorin drawled, having mastered the use of his voice again. Bilba did not trust herself to not sass him should she open her mouth, and simply shook her head, not breaking eye contact. “I have been told of your actions last night, and needless to say and I am touched by your bravery.” 

Bilba stared at him, wide-eyed. 

“Excuse me?” 

“You risked your life to save me, Miss Baggins. There are few things more romantic to a dwarf.” 

The hobbit wrote a quick mental note to thank Dori for leaving out that tidbit of information. 

“And?” she asked anxiously, gulping. Thorin stepped towards her, and Bilba’s breathing suddenly became short. 

“Miss Baggins,” he said, softly, deeply, taking her hand in a gentle but unyielding grip. “Bilba.” His eyes pierced hers as he drew closer, until they were nearly nose to nose and she could smell the blood hidden beneath his robes. “Marry me.”

Bilba gazed up at him in absolute shock, breath catching as her heart fluttered. Thorin watched her with a self-assured smile, waiting for her to begin fawning over him. 

She fainted in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hehehehe
> 
> Also, here's the artwork that really inspired me: https://fbcdn-sphotos-c-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-prn2/t1/q86/s720x720/1377482_1429575233946728_90393635_n.jpg (thanks sgtpaintbrush for finding it!)
> 
> The artist is here: http://www.pixiv.net/member.php?id=4612339 .  
> They've done a lot of amazing hobbit art posted on Pixiv, so you need a membership to see it, but check them out if you can!


	21. Hearts and Minds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilba makes a choice.

Bilba woke to the sound of knitting needles clacking and the scent of Thorin surrounding her. Eyes still closed, her brow furrowed as she groggily felt out where she was. She was on something soft, very soft, with warm covers over her and it was so comfortable—

Thorin’s bed. 

The situation came flooding back to her and she bolted upright with a gasp. The three dwarves in the room all jumped in surprise. The Ri brothers. Ori gazed at her with worried concern from the end of the bed, his knitting temporarily paused. Panting, Bilba snapped her head to the right and left, finding Dori in a chair by the bedside watching her cautiously and Nori leaning against the door on the other side of the room, effectively blocking the exit. Thorin was nowhere to be seen. 

“Ms. Baggins? Are you feeling alright?” Dori asked gently. Bilba’s breathing slowed after a moment, but she did not answer, swallowing hard. Fisting the sheets, her tormented mind slowly cleared. 

“His Majesty said the blood rushed right to your head,” Ori informed her, “You may want to lie back down, rest for a bit.” 

She shivered. Somewhere in the back of her head Bilba had hoped it had all been a dream, but no such luck. No, things had only become worse. Her mind was hazy, a storm of fear and disbelief, but one thought was coming to the front. 

“You’ve been out for over an hour, but you have been rather tired lately. Why don’t you go back to sleep and we’ll wake you for supper?” Dori advised. Nori remained silent, watching her with narrowed eyes. She wanted to scream at them, but her voice appeared to have abandoned her. 

Sleep? Were they mad? Well, of course they were, but they weren’t fools. Her muscles were tensed and every one of her curls seemed to stand on end. Bilba curled her toes under the blankets to try to relieve some of the nervousness. It didn’t help. 

She was getting married. 

Was it worth arguing about? Hardly. Thorin had not asked; he had ordered her to become his bride. Saying no would only lead to pain and bloodshed. Balin’s monologue about her being the king’s ‘One’ was actually true. Bilba could have snorted at the thought. Thorin feeling love? About as likely as a hobbit feeling hate. 

But the fact remained: she couldn’t stop him. Thorin had all the right cards, and hers were going up in smoke. Bilba’s shoulders sagged. She resigned to the fact. They’d lost. The plan involving the Arkenstone had failed, and her hope to protect Frodo was drifting away. Her strategy to ‘charm’ the dwarves had worked far too well. 

Pulling the covers up around her shoulders, she met Dori’s eyes disappointedly. The tea-loving dwarf, whom she had regarded as a real friend, leaned forward with a brow cocked. He had always possessed a willing ear for her crankier moments. 

“What does it mean to be a dwarf’s One?” she finally asked, dejected and defeated. 

All the dwarves blinked owlishly at her. 

“So it’s true?!” Ori gasped. 

“Damn, there goes my bet,” Nori muttered. 

Dori paused for a moment, searching her eyes for a sign. She and Thorin—they couldn’t possibly—she had no feelings for him! She had every reason not to!

But he noticed her hunched shoulders and miserable eyes. True, she may not hold feelings for him, but did that matter much to a conqueror? Thorin took entire kingdoms in his stride. Armies bowed to him and his word was law. Dori wasn’t sure if his king even knew the meaning of the word compromise. 

“It’s so romantic!” Ori squealed. “A powerful warrior and gentle maiden, butting heads at first and then protecting each other, just to find out they’re each other’s destinies! Dwarves will talk of it for centuries!” 

“It’s not that simple, Ori,” Nori grunted. The spy had done more than his share of traveling in his thieving days. From Erebor to Ered Luin and back again, with tangents off to the north and south. The Shirelings were a warm bunch, but took a while to accept strangers into their folds. Of course, a simple traveler who knew his way around a forge could pick up the latest gossip he kept an open ear. Education was all about paying attention. 

Nori knew hobbits did not have Ones, and Thorin had not believed he would find a person who was his until a few hours ago. Saving a dwarf’s life in such a way was a very unsubtle declaration, however, and Balin was the best at twisting words to be believable. The elderly dwarf was probably the only being in Middle Earth that could convince Thorin to change his mind about anything. 

But a bloodthirsty king and a maiden who despised the sight of blood? Hardly the making of a love story. 

“A dwarf’s One is supposed to be their other half,” Dori explained regretfully, gaging Bilba’s reaction. “They are made for each other by Mahal, our creator, and it’s said nothing can make a dwarf happier than finding theirs. Some do not have Ones and dedicate their lives to a craft, but many spend their lives searching for their fated love. It’s not always a romantic connection, but it usually is.” It was merely a basic description, said without inflection or joy, but Dori couldn’t summon the strength to try to make it sound like she’d been blessed. The poor hobbitess probably felt the exact opposite. Unfortunately, most dwarves would kill to meet their One, and Dori suspected Thorin would gladly do much more just to keep his. 

“All our love stories are about pairs finding each other,” Ori added jubilantly. “Sometimes they don’t realize who the other is at first, but the best parts are when they figure it out! Like in the tale of Hellah and Konar, they really hated each other at first, because they were from different clans, but in all their battles neither could best the other and they realized it was because they were destined for each other! Opposites but equals, you know.” 

“ _Equals?!_ ” Bilba shrieked, making the three siblings wince. “Equals? I couldn’t even protect my nephew from him!” She couldn’t begin to imagine a situation that was even possibly worse than hers. Her voice lowered and a broken smile crept across her face. “Equals, no. Opposites, yes. He has everything, and I-I’m just a hobbit,” she laughed humorlessly. “I have no power here.” 

“B-but…” Ori stammered, staring at her wide-eyed. “But you can’t be someone’s One without being their equal.” His tone was confused, distressed and uncertain. Ms. Baggins was almost in tears, and they didn’t look like the joyful kind. Why was she not thrilled? Thorin Oakenshield, king of most of Middle Earth, had discovered she was his One. She would be a queen! Thousands—hundreds of thousands—would bow to her. Of course she had power. “That’s a whole part of the myth,” Ori continued, “Whether a couple is made to be profoundly similar or vastly different, they complement each other. They either have the same strengths and are near matches in talent, or they have skills where the other does not and thus take care of each other.” 

“Perhaps you just don’t see it yet,” Dori offered uneasily. “Hobbits are obviously skilled at certain things dwarves are not, so maybe—“ 

“But I am not a dwarf! We don’t have Ones! How do you know these legends even apply?!” she exclaimed. Did these dwarves see logic at all? Or were they too far gone to see their own madness? Bilba’s heart sank. She was wholly surrounded by those that would never understand her. 

The room went quiet for a moment. Dori gazed glumly at the hobbit, whom he knew he had failed. He knew there was no way they could convince Thorin to leave her be. Poor Bilba was fated to him. Dori only meant to make her feel better, but it obviously only things worse. She was trapped in Thorin’s heart, and there was no bright side in that cob-webbed hole. 

“Does that mean hobbits never Fade?” Ori asked curiously. 

“Fade?” Bilba sniffled. “Oh wonderful, another thing I don’t understand.” 

“It’s when a dwarf loses their One and begins to move on,” Nori explained softly, “to the Maker’s Halls.” It wasn’t a particularly happy topic among dwarves at all. The one grave downside to having a soulmate. “Usually it happens when a dwarf’s One dies. They lose their other half, and most want to be with them more than anything, so they pass on. It’s rather quick when they’re an old couple, but for young loves it can be rather painful.” 

“That sounds awful.” 

“Oh it is. It spawns more nightmares than battle,” Nori continued. “Some can survive it though, if they have a strong enough reason to live. Children are a big pull. Thorin’s younger sister Dis is still kicking, and she lost her One while she was pregnant with Kíli.” 

Thorin had siblings? Bilba wondered if they were as terrifying as he was. She couldn’t imagine what the mother of Fíli and Kíli must be like. 

“The real frightening part about Fading, however, is not when a dwarf’s One dies. It’s when a dwarf’s One _rejects_ them.” 

Bilba furrowed her brow in confusion, wondering if she had heard right. Gazing at the dwarves, she realized she hadn’t. They all looked a little paler, a little tenser, and the hobbit fixed her eyes on Nori. 

“How does that happen? What’s worse about it?” 

“Mahal may be a god, but nobody is perfect,” Nori answered quietly. “Even he makes mistakes. Sometimes the person a dwarf loves is in love with someone else. Sometimes a dwarf’s One doesn’t see them as theirs. Their soul is practically ripped in two. They say it’s the most painful thing a dwarf can feel, like they’re rotting from the inside-out but they don’t die immediately. Now, they don’t tend to last very long after being rejected but…” 

“It’s not a pleasant end,” Bilba finished for him. Nori nodded. 

“It’s rare, happens maybe half a dozen times a century, but enough to be worrying.” 

“Most dwarven horror is based on it,” Ori added softly. 

“Well, at least I don’t have to worry about that,” Bilba muttered. 

_But Thorin does._

The thought, somehow terrifying but utterly marvelous all at once, hung unspoken in the air, and it filled her lungs like a breath of fresh air. 

She had power. 

“Where is Thorin?” she asked innocently. 

“Out informing the officers of our soon departure,” Dori informed her apologetically. “He wants to get back to Erebor as quickly as possible for the wedding.” 

Bilba swallowed the bile that rose to her throat at the thought. A wedding. To Thorin. In a dwarven kingdom filled with his supporters and family. Would the honeymoon be a trip to Mordor?

“And Frodo?” 

“We sent him over to the neighbor’s house to play. We didn’t want to worry him when you fell under.” 

Bilba took a deep breath. Fine, then. She was going to get married. To Thorin Oakenshield. Absolutely fine. 

But she would be damned if she didn’t get something out of it. A wedding was nothing without a contract, and Bilba had been negotiating those since her parents had died. The thief would not be leaving home empty-handed. 

“I need to go speak with my family,” the hobbitess declared, rising from the bed. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Dori said. “What if you faint again?” 

“I’ve had my rest. I’m fine.” She turned back to them, the three dwarves watching her with concern, suspicion, and maybe a hint of sympathy. “I need to go share the good news.” 

The Ri siblings all nodded slowly, letting her go, fully aware that she was lying. 

She snaked through the smial as quickly as she could without attracting attention to herself, and with her hobbit-y stealth managed to make it all the way to the front door, where Fíli and Kíli were sitting about like a couple of kicked puppies. Their lockdown was still in effect, and it was obviously getting to them. 

“Bilba!”

“Where are you going?” 

“Are you alright?” 

“When’s the wedding?”

Their smial-fever, however, didn’t put any damper on their energy. Bilba didn’t stop moving, just brushing past them with a smile and a quick word. 

“Just going to give my family the good news!” she lied, making bile rise in her throat. When she was out the door and into the brisk, chilly air, she added, muttering, “And to tell that little worm he was bloody right.” 

Bilba wasn’t sure what infuriated her more; that Thorin was going to force her into marriage, or that he had proven Rory completely correct in doing so. 

But she tried to focus on other things, Frodo mostly. What could she ever do with him? He had already lost his parents, been shuffled around homes and neglected, and Bilba had sworn to never abandon him. Could she leave him in the Shire? Would he be better off by her side? 

What was the danger of raising him amongst the dwarves? Would he be Thorin’s hostage or her anchor? Bilba didn’t know if she could last for years without seeing any member of her race. Without them to remind her what hobbits were supposed to be like, could Thorin poison her heart? But would he poison Frodo if she did bring the child? Would he teach the faunt to fight? Would Thorin abuse him? 

Could she raise Frodo to be a gentlehobbit completely alone? Could Frodo grow up to be one when raised around dwarves? 

Her heartbeat grew faster the more her mind trudged over thoughts of her nephew. Bilba had done everything in her power to protect him, and had never had to think twice about what was right. 

Now her choice seemed impossible: leave Frodo behind to be forgotten by the hobbits, or to separate him from all he had ever known to be fostered by barbarians? 

Bilba needed a second opinion. She needed to speak to Rory. 

Most of the hobbits had dispersed from the earlier meeting, so paths were well carved in the snow through Hobbiton. A few of her cousins in town gave her worried looks, and she pointedly ignored them. 

It wasn’t difficult to decide where to go looking first, at least. Their relationship may not have been as tight as it was some years earlier, but Bilba knew where Rory went when he wanted time to think, especially if the mood of such thoughts was rather morose. The banks of the Brandywine River. 

The news of Primula’s death still rang in her ears like it was yesterday. Bilba had heard of her cousin’s, Drogo Baggins’, death first, being a relation. But Primula’s death was the immediate afterthought. The couple was so full of life and so utterly unusual. A Baggins and a Brandybuck? Completely and utterly impossible. The families had nothing in common. The Brandybucks were far too raucous to the Bagginses, and the Bagginses were far too uptight for the Brandybucks. But that hadn’t been the case for Primula and Drogo. 

Bilba only admitted that she was a little jealous of them after they died. 

But there was Frodo to think of and funerals to plan and the whole Brandybuck family was thrown into the air. The Bagginses had never been ones for large emotional displays. They showed their love and sadness, but they had always kept a very firm, unbending lid on it. Primula’s parents had practically shattered, and Rory had to take up the burden. 

The other hobbits would have thought it demented if they knew he spent much of his free time on the edge of the river that swept away his little sister, but only a few ever strayed close to its banks. Even the fishers only sat on the bridges. Bilba only knew of Rory’s habit because she had been doing the same and found him just staring off into space. She had been pacing through the quiet forest around the river, enjoying the peace, and then she just stumbled upon him. Now she was searching. 

He was hunched over, sitting on a cleared stump, staring blankly into the icy waters. Rory’s darker curls were stuck upwards chaotically by the cold breeze but he didn’t appear bothered by the cold. Bilba approached him slowly, nervously, struggling to think of what to say.

“You know the first thing Frodo said after we found him?” Rory asked suddenly, not even turning to look at her. His voice broke through the still air and Bilba tensed, but took a deep breath and moved to sit down next to him. 

“No, no, I didn’t see him until a few weeks afterwards.” 

“He just looked lost, a confused little faunt,” Rory said despondently, “and he comes up to me and says ‘When are Mama and Papa going to come up? They’ve been swimming for a long time.’ And I just hear Amaranth and Asphodel gasp and Saradas just froze and all I could think was ‘What am I going to tell my father?’” 

Bilba’s eyes began to sparkle with tears as Rory’s voice grew wetter and torn. All she could do was rest a gentle hand on his back. It had been so shocking, so unexpected, when they had died. No hobbits had died of unnatural causes since the Fell Winter, the vast majority of them dying from old age. It just seemed like hobbits were supposed to pass away, not die. 

“Bilba, I’m so sorry for what we said to you, for what I said to you, but please understand that Gorbadoc hasn’t been the same since it happened and we’re all just terrified for Frodo’s sake. None of us mean any harm, but with everything’s that happened—“

“Don’t worry about it,” she whispered, choking on the words. “None of this is your burden to bear, Rory. You know that.” 

“Doesn’t make it any easier, though.” 

Bilba nodded, both because she had nothing to say to that and she would not have trusted her voice not to break if she had. They both remained silent for a few minutes, recollecting all the old scars they each had, both visible and hidden. 

“I know this is rubbish timing,” Bilba began softly after a while, “but I need to ask for your opinion on something.” 

“Be my guest.” 

“Well, I should explain the context first, and actually you’ll be the first hobbit to know,” Bilba swallowed hard, trying to not sound as horrified as she felt. “I’m getting married.” 

Rory didn’t move at all, except for a very slow blink at the water. 

Then he turned, shifting to face her with a purposefully blank face. 

“Tooo…..?” 

“You know who,” she admitted. “You called it, and I should have seen it coming. But at least my family won’t be able to yell at me when I’m living hundreds of miles away in a mountain.” 

Rory was dumbstruck, then terrified, then resolved. 

“We’re getting you out of the Shire.” 

Bilba sullenly shook her head. 

“There is no fighting this, Rory. It would only make things worse and you know it. What I came here to ask you about is what I should do with Frodo.” 

Rory furrowed his brow, mouth open in silent question. 

“You’re his uncle. You have as much right to decide where he goes as I do, if not more,” Bilba sighed. “I can either take him with me and the dwarves, or I can leave him here.” 

“And neither one leads to a hopeful future,” Rory pointed out. His shoulders slumped as he leaned over, holding his head in his hands. 

“I just want whatever is best for the lad,” Bilba confessed. Rory nodded knowingly. They sat silently for another few minutes, contemplating their choice. 

“Honestly, I don’t think either choice will save you any sleep at night,” Rory finally answered. “But while I am very opposed to having my nephew raised by dwarves, I don’t think he could stand losing three parents. That boy needs you, Bilba, and if you’re going to be marrying that git, you may need him too.” 

Bilba turned to face him, eyes narrowed in skepticism. He would approve of her wisking Frodo away? 

“You really think I should take him? Gorbadoc would have a conniption fit if he knew we were even discussing it.” 

“This is not about him,” Rory snapped, leaning back to meet her eyes. “This is about you and Frodo. Bilba, you’ve done everything in your power to protect the rest of us, and we haven’t been all that thankful. You don’t deserve to be alone with those dwarves just for the sake of the ungrateful. And Frodo doesn’t have anyone else. The boy barely said a word after he realized his parents were gone, until you came to visit. It was your stories, your tales of adventure that brought him back to us. Bring him with you. He’ll be better off.” 

Bilba blinked disbelievingly, but soon agreed, swallowing through a painfully dry throat, “Okay. Okay, I will. Thank you, Rory.”

“I’m always here.” 

Bilba brushed away her tears, forcing a broken smile. Rory clenched his fists, his eyes lowered to hide his anger. It wasn’t right for hobbits to be angry. But those damn dwarves—

“I’ll be okay. You know that, right?” Bilba consoled. “Being a queen has to have some perks.” 

“Bilba…” Rory agonized. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Just…just try to come visit some time, alright?” 

“Alright,” she murmured as she rose to leave, knowing it might be a lie. Would Thorin ever let her return home? Would she ever see the Shire’s rolling hills and Party Tree after she left? Was her fate sealed within a mountain? 

They both remained motionless for a minute, still as the barren trees as the river flowed slowly next to them. The end of winter, usually a celebratory time, would now be as hollowing as the season itself. The hobbits took their moment of peace quietly, knowing how fleeting it was. Yavanna’s children were not stone, not made to endure like the sons and daughters of Mahal. They were light and delicate like leaves in the wind or flowers under the sun, easily trampled or crushed but abiding it all, for they were tied close with the bonds of family and friends, and they supported each other how they could. Perhaps they did not walk away physically stronger from confrontations like the dwarves, but they never lost sight of what mattered to them. 

“I should be off,” Bilba said after a while. “Are you okay here?” She wrapped her arms around herself to fight the chill. Rory didn’t even acknowledge the cold. 

“Until you leave.” 

Rory stood up from the stump, barely a foot from her, and Bilba’s throat went worryingly dry. She should be going. Neither spoke, but the pink across her cheeks was not solely from the cold. 

“Rory,” Bilba trembled, breath fogging in the cold. His soft eyes were full of woe, and his movements, small and slow, were just indicative enough. 

She threw herself into his arms and they hugged each other close, wishing they could never let go. Tears rolled down her face as Bilba sobbed without a sound, face buried in his shoulder while he rocked them back and forth soothingly. Her stress and frustration poured out, and she fisted his coat in her hands and held onto him like an anchor. Rory let her, gently rubbing her back and trying to memorize the scent of her hair. He had years of practice at comforting people, but this was a whole new monster, and tears were beginning to stream down his face as well. 

It was some time before they begrudgingly separated. Bilba knew she had to return home, and Rory needed to let the other hobbits know what was to come. Bilba took several deep breaths, wiping her cheeks with her sleeves, before speaking again. 

“Yavanna save us all,” she prayed softly. Rory nodded silently. His faith was beginning to wane. But Bilba squeezed his hands, and with one final half-heartedly optimistic look, she plodded home, repeatedly stopping herself from looking back. 

Neither noticed the two pairs of eyes watching from the distance. 

But despite the knowledge that she should return to Bag End swiftly, Bilba felt little motivation to be once again surrounded by dwarves, especially those hoping to give her their congratulations on her impending engagement. She ambled around the hobbit market, though there was barely anything to look at, and took what longer paths she could.

All the while Bilba strove to think of what she could bargain for with her newfound knowledge. Negotiating with Thorin was like playing with a forest fire, but surely there was a foothold for her to take advantage of. What would Thorin be willing to give up for the sake of her love? He held all of the Shire and the life of every hobbit within in the palm of his hand. 

But Bilba held his life in hers. 

His pride was her biggest worry; Thorin would not be pleased if she made demands, and his temper was shorter than the hairs on her feet. She would have to convince him that he was getting the better deal. 

Who knew what the other dwarves would think of it all? A hobbit as queen of the dwarves? At least Thorin couldn’t send her to Gondor now. 

Could he?

Bilba shook her head, her thoughts meandering away. Her race was depending on her. All of her cleverness needed to be focused on this. 

What could she get out of marrying Thorin? 

\-------------------------------------------------------------

Frodo was feeling guilty. 

All he had wanted to do was help! The monsters had been coming and he knew how often his Auntie Bilba had bad dreams about the monsters, so he wanted to stop them before they hurt her anymore. The dwarves were going to fight them, and he had a sword, so why couldn’t he go too? 

But then a bigger monster had come and Mr. Thorin almost got eaten. That was not good. 

But Auntie Bilba had come and saved them! 

And then he was in trouble. 

Auntie Bilba had been too tired to scold him but Mrs. Gamgee was happy to. ‘Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?!’ and ‘No respectable hobbit would do such a thing,’ and so on and so forth. And Frodo suspected Bilba would end up grounding him when she had the strength to do so. 

Maybe after that she and Mr. Thorin would kiss and make up. Frodo knew the two of them didn’t get along very well, but Mr. Thorin had saved his life and Auntie Bilba had saved Mr. Thorin’s so now they had to fall in love! That’s how all the stories in his books ended. Of course, the heroes in tales were not usually as violent as the dwarves, but Frodo had noticed how Mr. Thorin watched his aunt. It was like how his father had gazed at his mother. Before they went away. 

Not to mention that Mr. Thorin was a king! His aunt would be a queen and they could live in a big castle and live happily ever after. If Auntie Bilba brought him with her. She would, right? Of course she would. Auntie Bilba would never leave him. Frodo was sure of it. 

They would all go live in the castle, and even if he had to leave Sam and Pippin and Merry behind it would be okay because they could write letters and they could visit each other and have adventures. Frodo could learn to fight like a dwarf to protect his aunt and maybe he could meet Mr. Thorin’s dragon! Everything would be wonderful. 

The thought made Frodo smile as he and Sam put the final touches on their snowhobbit in the Gamgee’s yard. All they needed were a couple of buttons for the eyes and maybe a pipe. Perhaps they would make a snowdwarf next. 

“Uh, Frodo, are those your dwarf friends?” Sam asked uneasily, looking past him as he packed down snow. Frodo glanced over his shoulder to see Fíli and Kíli walking up the steps to Bag End. Frodo frowned. Weren’t Fíli and Kíli grounded by their uncle? They weren’t supposed to leave Bag End. And what was that between them? 

The faunts squinted from the Gamgee’s yard towards the dwarves, hoping to get a glimpse of what they were doing. It looked like they were hauling someone—hard to say who from the distance—up towards the round green door. There was an arm over each of their shoulders and the person’s feet just dragged limply along the ground, too short to be a dwarf. 

Frodo’s eyes sprang wide. A hobbit had been injured! The monsters had gotten past the dwarves somehow and the poor hobbit had been attacked! 

The boys gradually stopped patting their snowhobbit as they gaped. Fíli, Kíli, and the hobbit soon disappeared behind the green door, and Frodo gulped. They must have brought him there to treat his wounds and see what had happened. The dwarves would fix it, though. Whatever monster had hurt that hobbit would be found, and his people would be protected. The dwarves were good people. Fíli and Kíli were even risking getting into more trouble to help a hurt hobbit.

“Should we go see what’s happening?” Sam asked him nervously. Frodo shook his head, black curls bouncing. 

“No. We would get in their way. Auntie Bilba will find out though, and I’ll ask her. I’m sure whoever that was will be just fine.” 

\---------------------------------------------------------------

Eventually, Bilba couldn’t find anything else to preoccupy her and possessed a decent idea of what she would ask of Thorin, and how she would phrase it. Politeness and respect was key. Luckily, years of dealing with Lobelia’s self-importance and pride had given her plenty of practice. 

Walking up the path to Bag End, Bilba discovered her nephew’s handiwork in the Gamgee’s yard and smiled warmly to herself. At least the newest generation of hobbits could find joy in the snow. There were little boot tracks leading back to the Gamgee’s smial, so the boys were probably getting warmed up. Bilba wanted to make them dinner as a thank you, but with thirteen dwarves in her own home there was hardly food to spare. Well, perhaps they wouldn’t be there for long, but neither would she. 

The sight of the snowhobbit almost made her miss the drops of blood in the snow leading to her door. Bilba did a double-take, blood running cold as she bolted through her doorway. 

“Green Mother Above, have mercy on—“

She cut herself off when she found where the blood led. 

In the sitting room, before the blazing fire and her family portraits, was the Company, darkly silhouetted and disturbingly silent, but Bilba sensed they had only just stopped talking as she had entered. 

But most importantly, in the center of their little half-circle, next to the ever-menacing Thorin Oakenshield, was a hobbit. Gagged and tied to a chair, with a busted lip and bloody temple. 

Rory. 

None spoke for what felt like an eternity. Bilba unconsciously soaked in the scene; Dori’s regretful frown, Dwalin running his fingers along the sharp edge of one of his axes, Bofur picking food out from between his teeth with a dagger and the threatening grin across his face. Bilba could feel her gut wrench when she met Rory’s eyes. He was utterly terrified, blood matting his curls and bruise starting to darken on his cheek. They had been talking just an hour ago. 

Thorin’s hand rested on the back frame of the chair, just next to Rory’s head, and he glared thunderously at Bilba. Fíli and Kíli were on the other side of her friend, the elder giving her a stern look, the younger grinning with pride. Balin was sitting on the couch with Oin and Ori, calmly sipping tea, while Nori watched her closely, fingering one of his many knives. Gloin was leaning against one of the back walls, nearly bored, and Bifur and Bombur took up the loveseat. 

“Ms. Baggins,” Thorin sneered, voice fearsome and deep, “Is this how hobbits usually act upon marriage proposals? Is it tradition to run into the arms of another when one becomes engaged?” The dwarf king was caustic and cruel, leaving no opportunity for defense and growing ever more furious. “I can only assume you would do so in an attempt to inspire jealousy in your fiancé. Well, congratulations. You have most definitely succeeded in that.” Thorin gripped the back of Rory’s head by the curls with one hand, and with the other revealed a curved dagger from his robes. Rory’s wide, terrified eyes followed it while the rest of his body quivered in fear. “I thought my fury had reached its maximum when Fíli and Kíli confessed to leaving your burrow, but now I am infinitely pleased they did.” The princes grinned elatedly at the praises, and Bilba knew she would be making her grandmother’s special prune brownies for the two little brutes. But her thoughts were cut short as Thorin spoke again. “Give me one reason,” he snarled just as he had so many months ago, “why I should not separate his head from his body for coming between me and my One.” 

The dwarven conqueror expected his thief to beg, to cry and implore for him to have mercy. But killing the leader of an orc tribe did something for one’s confidence. 

Bilba spoke, calmly and carefully, “I am afraid I am unaware how this hobbit has come between you and your One, Thorin Oakenshield.” She held her hands together in front of her and blinked up at him inquisitively.

Thorin glowered, “He held you in his arms! You searched him out and spoke intimately with him, rather than your future husband. You may have rebelled once, but by this time this cretin should have known how foolish it is to take advantage of a dwarf’s One in need.” 

“So hugging is illegal in your culture?” Bilba asked, failing to hold back her haughtiness. “Or perhaps you should simply ask yourself why I wished to speak with him. One would try to find comfort when being forced into a marriage.” 

“Forced?!” Thorin bellowed. “You are my One as I am yours and we are fated for each other. A dwarf’s One is a promise of rapturous joy—What option is there but marriage?” 

“Well there is the fact that hobbits do not have Ones,” Bilba pointed out dryly. Thorin’s brow furrowed and he pursed his lips. “I may be your One, but you are not mine, and for all the months we have lived together you have never acted as anything better than a monster to me. You have threatened myself, my nephew, and the entirety of my race. What part of our time together was supposed to have inspired happiness or adoration in me?” 

The dwarves all stared at her, and then at Thorin, as they each put the pieces together. The smial was deathly silent, and Rory’s eyes more than displayed his panic. Dori finally met Bilba’s eyes, guarded but knowing. She only gave the slightest, barely noticeable nod in thanks. If the other dwarves knew what he had revealed…

“I suppose some cultural differences may be the cause of this disagreement,” Bilba began tentatively, “but hobbits are very tactile creatures. We hug and hold hands quite freely. Rory is merely a friend, Thorin. And I mean really, if you are going to start beheading people you’ll have to include a number of your own Company.” 

That caught their attention. 

Thorin’s especially.

“Who touched you?!” he roared, abandoning his post at Rory’s side and storming to stand only inches from her, toe to toe. 

“Nori was constantly correcting my stance during my training, as you ordered him to,” Bilba explained, ignoring how the star-haired dwarf’s eyes bulged in fear. “And do you remember when Bofur and I danced at that festival a few months ago? Not to mention how Oin checked me over after the battle—“

“Enough!” Thorin glared down at her with ice-cold eyes, seething like a bull. “Get to your point,” he growled through his teeth. Bilba met his glower with one of her own, not giving an inch. 

“Harm one more hair on his head and you will lose all chance of receiving any love from me, Thorin Oakenshield. If you don’t let him go peacefully I will be forever outraged and married or not I will despise you with all my heart. There is my line, and if you cross it there is no going back.”

The dwarf king, dagger in hand and surrounded by his loyal Company, visibly paled at the threat. 

Even insinuating violence against another was unhobbity, but after fighting in a battle against orcs Bilba knew her reputation had little left to lose. 

The conqueror and the thief regarded each other for a long time, as the Company was left to observe the invisible battle of wills. Thorin ultimately back away, not meeting anyone’s eyes as he snarled. 

“Let him go.” 

This time the dwarves did a double take, hesitating just long enough for Thorin to rest his hand on the pommel of his sword. They were rather quick after that. 

Fíli and Kíli cut his binds and gag, and pushed him to his feet. Rory crumpled to the floor. 

Bilba flinched, but did not go to him. He was safer away from her. 

“You will have someone escort him home,” she demanded. “And if he or any of the hobbits are intimidated again…” 

She did not need to finish. 

Fíli and Kíli did haul Rory to his feet and carry to the door. A few nearby guards were called and within minutes, Bilba was alone with the Company. Thorin was gazing into the fire where none could meet his eye, but the other dwarves glanced between the two of them restlessly, like they were treading on thin ice simply by being there. 

She scratched her previous plans involving the prune brownies. Those two beasts were getting going to get a taste of the Brandybucks’ special chili. 

Bilba was just about to turn away to her study when Thorin suddenly reared on her, grabbing her wrist and dragging her from the room. Given what she had just achieved, she decided not to struggle. 

He stomped into the study, slinging her forward and slamming the door shut behind him, trapping her in. Thorin’s nostrils flared with fury and he charged towards her. Bilba backed up this time, heart beating like a hare cornered by a wolf, until she felt her desk pressed up against her lower back while Thorin loomed over her like a thunder cloud. A thunder cloud with a sword strapped to its hip and could probably break her bones with one hand. 

“You dare to pressure me? You think you can torment me, Halfling?” 

His voice was deep, low, and chilling to the bone, and his hands moved to grip the desk on either side of her. Thorin leaned down and Bilba leaned back, but she could still feel his breath on her face as he growled like a warg at her. 

“It seemed to work,” she quipped, sounding braver than she felt, “and I find it remarkably ironic that you have the nerve to call me Halfling, considering you have to force Elves to their knees just to be eye-level with their chins.”

“You _dare_ —“

“Oh I dare, Thorin Oakenshield!” Bilba fumed, surging upward to catch Thorin off-guard. He only took once step back, but it was enough for her put her finger in his face. “You, a dwarf, take over all of Middle Earth, make all the people who once looked down at you bow down to you. And you know what? Good for you! Nice job treating Men and Elves worse than they’ve treated you in centuries. But somehow that’s not enough, is it? They’re still taller than you, and you still have to make them kneel just to have a conversation with them. Despite all your power, it’s still a task to look down at them.” Bilba was seething, face reddening as she roared at him like a mad woman. “But not hobbits, huh? You can look down your ridiculously pointed nose at us and feel all proud, but too bad, because that’s the one thing about hobbits, oh conqueror,” she sneered, “We don’t have a king, and we don’t bow down. So don’t you dare call me a Halfling, dwarf. We are not half of anything.” 

Thorin gaped at her, almost stunned silent, but he was nothing if not stubborn.

“You are my other half,” he breathed, almost reverently. 

“Then start acting like it,” Bilba growled resentfully. 

Thorin clenched his fists until his nails began to bite his thick skin, his patience speedily wearing thin. He used his anger to bolster his voice, barking at her. 

“You will marry me, you will live with me as Queen of Erebor, and you will not attempt to threaten me again—“

“Or what?” Bilba snapped, “You will hurt the hobbits? You’ll burn the Shire to ash? If I hear of one more hobbit being unjustly harmed by a dwarf I’ll reject you with all the fury of Smaug, make no mistake, conqueror. If you want me as your wife, you will meet my conditions.”

Thorin gazed at her incredulously, and would have laughed if his life was not being threatened, “Such as?” 

“The control of the Shire will return to the hobbits,” Bilba demanded. “All of your dwarves will retreat from our lands and trade will resume as it did before your invasion with the neighboring towns. Your soldiers, however, will guard the borders of the Shire, so no orcs or bandits will endanger the homeland and race of their queen.” Bilba couldn’t fight her own grin as she continued, and Thorin’s face became less and less confident. “Smaug will never come within the borders of the Shire, and neither will your soldiers, unless they are guarding me on the trips I will be making back here at least once every three years. I will become the liaison between Erebor and the Shire, as it maintains its sovereignty, and any decisions about the land must be approved by me. And,” Bilba concluded unabashedly, “Frodo will come live with me in Erebor, be treated as nothing less than a citizen of Erebor and the Queen’s nephew, and his education, daily life, and cultural upbringing will be under my supervision.” 

She was panting by the time she finished, but smiling all the while. Especially at the stunned look on Thorin’s face. Unfortunately, his shock quickly subsided, replaced with a feral grin that Bilba did not like one bit. 

“Fine,” Thorin agreed simply, sounding far too pleased for Bilba’s comfort. “I will have Balin draw up the marriage contract with your demands. But you should be aware of mine.” He moved toward her again, not pushing her but standing squarely in her personal space, practically purring into her ear. “You will sit by my side on the throne and should ever a criminal be caught, you will watch _dwarven_ justice take place. You will be my wife and my queen and my One, and wear dwarvish gowns and robes, and as long as you are in Erebor you will forsake your upbringing, save when you are educating your nephew. You will see what my rule has created across Middle Earth and learn what I have done to those few others who have rebelled against me. You will sleep in my bed and serve alongside me and if you ever break this contract, your heart will be broken far more than mine. Do you understand me, Ms. Baggins?” 

Bilba’s voice was stone cold. 

“I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what do you get a murderous dwarf and a pacifistic hobbit as a wedding gift?


	22. Out of the Shire, Into the Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was inevitable.

When Bilba was a wee faunt, orcs had been nothing more than a scary tale. 

Belladonna would tell her stories of adventure before she went to bed, with dragons and heroes and orcs, and Bilba would cheer and laugh at the fables. Her favorite was a yarn about a dragon kidnapped by orcs and rescued by a hobbit princess (hobbits did not have royalty, but Belladonna heard stories like that in the kingdoms of Men, and it was fun to think about). Orcs were supposed to ghoulish things, pale from years in the dark with nasty teeth and big weapons, but were always outwitted by clever hobbits. Bloodshed was glossed over, deaths were rare, and Belladonna always checked under the bed for orcs, simply because little Bilba asked. 

As childish as it seems, to all of the hobbits save Belladonna, orcs were stories. They lived far away in caves, and the Shire was protected by the Rangers and Gandalf. They were safe, life was good. 

That lovely illusion came to an end during the Fell Winter. 

Belladonna had gathered the hobbits who would fight and Bilba had snuck out after them, and she finally came face to face with the beasts she had giggled at years earlier. 

They were _grotesque_. Mutated and twisted with metal, sizes varying from a hobbit’s to a Man’s, the orcs were creatures of nightmares. The young hobbitess had gasped in horror when her gaze fell upon the first monstrosity. It felt like all her organs had vanished from her body, like she was hollow and a mere breeze could cause her to collapse. 

Bilba had spent years trying to describe the feeling to those who had not been in the battle, and could only find one word that conveyed the sensation. 

She had felt _haunted_. 

Years later, after another battle with orcs, that same feeling would erupt in her body the moment Balin appeared with the marriage contract. 

In the early morning following Rory’s beating (the dwarves had called it an _intervention_ ), Balin had drafted the contract from their agreements, and presented it before the thief and conqueror. Thorin signed it with ink in the deep blue color of his robes, and Balin wrote his name beneath it as a witness, and then it was left to Bilba. 

Fog rolled outside her window, chilling the air, causing light to shine in at broken angles and shadows to creep intimidatingly across the walls. Balin seemed very pleased with his work, and somehow Thorin looked larger than usual, at least to Bilba. His owlish eyes watched her every move, like he was waiting for her to change her mind and resist, but the hobbit’s shoulders were slack with tired muscles. She had not slept well the previous night, and her burden felt too heavy for one hobbit to hold any longer.

Frodo was not yet back from the Gamgee’s, but Bilba imagined the boy would be grateful for one last playdate with his friend before he was suddenly whisked away from his home. His teary goodbyes might be the hardest part of the whole process. That, or possibly facing Rory again. 

Her dear friend had made it home, Bilba knew, but what had he told the hobbits? Did the family heads know what was to happen? For that matter, did she? 

Having read the contract through thrice and finding nothing she could imagine them changing, Bilba completed her signature across the bottom line of the parchment. She had considered breaching an argument over the clause involving ‘marital duties’ being required at minimum once a week, but stopped herself. 

_You will sleep in my bed and serve alongside me._

She was agreeing to marry him. Marriage involved certain things, and her bargaining chips could only do so much. Thorin had wanted her for a long time. At least she could put it off until the wedding night. Perhaps then she could convince him to be a little gentle. 

Not that she had much say in the matter. Dwarven marital duties were, well, duties. As was joining Thorin in court when he was tasked with decreeing judgments over disputes or sentencing criminals. 

_You will watch dwarven justice take place._

Her stomach lurched at the thought. This was all that could be done, and it was her responsibility. For a moment, Bilba wondered what would have happened had Gandalf gone to some other hobbit, or a Man or whomever, and asked for their help. Perhaps he had. Was anyone succeeding? Was Gondor the last bastion of resistance?

Gazing down at her own surrender to Thorin, the signature that both saved her people and doomed herself, tore at her heart like an axe. She was betrothed—promised—to the cruelest creature in all of Arda. What was her life to become?

What could she call this? Agony? No, too sharp. Heartbreak? That had already happened. Bilba internally cursed herself. Dammit, what word could—

Oh. Of course.

She felt _damned_. 

\--------------------------------------------------------

“Frodo? Come here, sweetie, I need to talk to you,” Bilba coaxed, hoping her voice wouldn’t break. 

“Coming, Auntie!” he called from the doorway, hanging his coat on the door. Staying the night at Sam’s had been lots of fun, and the injured hobbit the dwarves had carried into Bag End hadn’t crossed his mind since he had first witnessed it. 

Bilba sat on what had once been her bed, in what had once been her room, with traveling clothes and her favorite trinkets stacked on the floor. Thorin had assured her that she would have an entire new wardrobe tailored for her when they arrived in Erebor, so there was no need to bring her more than a few changes of clothes for their journey. 

Frodo scrambled across her lap, leaning against her shoulder. Auntie Bilba looked tired. 

“Frodo, dear, I am afraid I have some bad news,” she sighed. Bilba stared down at the little faunt in her lap, whose eyes were concerned, but far too close to Thorin’s for comfort. “The dwarves are going to be leaving the Shire soon, and we’ll be going with them.”

There was a pause as Frodo blinked up at her owlishly, absorbing the information, and Bilba felt her throat constrict. 

“Do you mean all the hobbits…or just us?” Frodo asked slowly. Bilba swallowed hard. 

“Just us, my boy. You and I will be staying in the dwarf’s mountain from now on. We’ll be able to visit the Shire every once in a while, but—

“Did you and Thorin make up?” Frodo asked suddenly. 

“What? Did we—what?” 

“He saved my life and then you saved his and I know you didn’t used to like him but now you do, right?” Frodo gasped. “You two made up and can live happily ever after!” 

“Frodo, you know you won’t see Sam or the other boys for a long time,” Bilba explained dejectedly. “We’ll be living in a mountain with dwarves.”

“And a dragon! Do you think Mister Thorin will let me see him?” 

Bilba didn’t know whether she felt happy for the boy or even more alone. 

“I don’t know, Frodo, I don’t know.” 

A knock at the door caused them both to jump, and Bilba clutched Frodo that much closer. The door swung open, revealing Bofur and Bifur. Neither appeared particularly crazed at the moment, but they hardly looked remorseful. 

“Hey there, lass,” Bofur said conversationally. “Just here to pack up what we can. All your stuff is going in the covered wagons so don’t you worry about tonight’s weather. Is all this ready to go?” 

Bilba released the breath she’d been holding, shoulders slouching, and nodded. Besides her clothes, all she had packed was her mother’s glorybox, a few hanker-chiefs and doilies, and her little sword. She would put a few of the smaller portraits of her parents in her personal bag, but other than that she just needed to pack Frodo’s things. 

Bifur was able to carry most of it and left the room with a gruff nod to the hobbits. Bofur gathered up what was left, but as he stood up chuckled to the hobbits. 

“I’m sure you two will love Erebor. My clan’s from Moria originally, but the Lonely Mountain is something else. In-mountain plumbing with water heating, statues as big as a house, and jewels shinier than you would dream. A few more stairs than I would care for, but the architecture makes up for it.”

“There’d better be railings,” Bilba muttered. Hobbits were not accustomed to heights. This was unfortunate, as her mother explained to her years ago, because Big People seemed to be obsessed with them. 

“Will I get to see a dragon?!” Frodo asked, practically bouncing in his aunt’s arms. 

“You bet your pointy ears!” Bofur chortled. He reached towards them, most likely to ruffle Frodo’s hair or something to that effect, but Bilba lunged back, holding Frodo to her far side. The boy let out a small ‘eep’ in surprise as the dwarf’s eyebrows shot up. 

Had Bofur forgotten that he tortured her friend, or did he not think it unusual? Could the way he slaughtered orcs in battle with a manic grin feel too mundane to remember? Did he honestly think she would ever let him touch her boy again? 

Bilba scooped up her nephew, but never took her eyes off the deranged dwarf. He stared at her, confused and hurt, but the hobbit was having none of it. 

“We still need to pack your things, Frodo,” she said quickly, tersely, marching out the door. 

Harshly blowing air out her nose, Bilba stomped to Frodo’s room. It had been taken up by the princes for the past few months, but the boy’s stuff was still in there. Frodo slid out of her arms, glancing up at his tense aunt. 

“Pick out your favorite toys and keepsakes, lad,” Bilba sighed, trying to soothe herself, “I’ll get your clothes.” 

They worked silently, but Bilba noticed Frodo eyeing her in her peripheral more than once. She did her best to not blame him for his excitement at their impending journey. After all, it had been her tales of adventure and far off places that had pulled him from his quiet mind following his parents’ death. Curiosity bloomed within him, and Bilba had always encouraged his interests. But the lad did not understand the situation.

If she was being honest with herself, Bilba didn’t really want him to. 

If Frodo could have a few more years of joyful ignorance, then perhaps it was a blessing. Neither scared of the snow nor the outside world, his inquisitiveness could have its fill when they began traveling. In Erebor, he would be treated like a prince, and she could still teach him the ways of the hobbits. Whatever he knew of her and Thorin’s marriage, whenever he learned of the real reason behind it, at least for now he could grow up happy and innocent. 

A few hours later, when Bag End was bare save for the furniture, Bilba tucked Frodo in on the loveseat and tried to let her mind go blank. There was far too much to think about; goodbyes had to be said, letters had to be sent, and by this time tomorrow the Shire would be far behind them. 

Fortunately, or perhaps the opposite, her chaotic thoughts were interrupted by muffled foot-steps: a dwarf attempting to be quiet, and failing naturally. Bilba’s head swiveled to the archway connecting the sitting to the hall, and discovered Bofur gazing back, eyebrows (and mustache) drooping. 

She pursed her lips and stubbornly set her eyes back on the fire. His sigh was audible. 

“You know I don’t mean either o’ya any harm,” Bofur spoke softly. 

“You did when you got here,” she snapped. Back then, Bofur was as frightening as Thorin, if for different reasons. But then she talked to him and danced with him and the miner had been her friend. She thought she understood him. The battle proved her wrong, though. He was as murderous as ever, and Bilba tried to ignore the feeling of betrayal in her heart. Bofur had never promised her anything, certainly not to change his ways. 

“You messed with my pick-axe and stole the Arkenstone.” 

“If you think those are good reasons to kill someone, then there’s nothing you can do to convince me to trust you.”

Bofur tilted his head to one side, wiggling his nose and causing his mustache to wobble as he gazed at her thoughtfully. 

“How about protecting the Shire against orcs?”

“Thorin ordered you to.”

“Would’a done it either way, lass.” 

Bilba huffed and settled back against the couch. She would not be lectured on moralities and friendship by a butcher. Refusing to be ignored, Bofur strode into the room as quiet as he could and sat down on the closest chair. He rested his chin on knuckles, elbows on his knees, and tried to catch Bilba eye to eye. 

“You know you have a mighty bit of power now, being a queen and all. Can boss us around just as much as Thorin can and your boy’s a prince in all but title. If anyone ever tries to harm either o’ya, it’ll be their head on a platter—and not a quick death, of course.”

“How comforting it is to know that no one would dare cause me pain when I’m being taken from my home and forced to marry a mass-murderer,” the hobbitess snarled. Bofur ducked his head, turning a way. At least he had some sense of shame. His shoulders drooped and he seemed to deflate; even the edges of his hat looked lower. The dwarf scratched his chin unconsciously as Bilba crossed her arms, neither feeling particularly talkative anymore. Eventually, Bofur shrugged and tried to start over.

“I know my first impression wasn’t exactly endearing, and you have every reason to not be so kind to us members of the Company, but just know that some of us do care about ya, lass. We’re not gentle souls like yer kind, but we protect our own with all our strength.” 

Gritting her teeth, Bilba wished she could ignore how genuine Bofur sounded. She didn’t want to trust the dwarves; they were vile and twisted creatures, sadistic and battle-frenzied, but the thought of having people that cared for her, that had some sense of her grief, was an unexpected comfort. Loneliness in Erebor was a growing fear in her heart. Her mind wandered to Bofur’s past, how he’d grown in up in such a terrible home full of cruelty and violence. The miner at least had his moments of civility and compassion. 

Dori and Ori certainly meant well, and Nori could keep a secret or two he wasn’t supposed to. Dwalin wasn’t always the heart-of-ice warrior his demeanor reflected, and Bombur was jolly enough when fed. Bifur and Gloin had only ever been violent in battle, and while Oin’s bedside manner left something to be desired, he could be reasoned with. 

In contrast, the princes meant well, but their minds were too sick to have faith in. And Balin was unreadable. One moment he was her friend, the next he was Thorin’s right-hand. He was unpredictable, and thus could not be trusted. 

But perhaps there were other dwarves in Erebor whom were not so far gone. Surely the Company were the worst of the worst. Bilba hoped there was at least one dwarf in the entire kingdom she could find a friend in—a real one. 

Bofur spoke again, pulling her out of her thoughts. 

“Hate me or not, Ms. Baggins, I’m here if you need anything. I can be a decent listener, or distraction, if need be.”

The dwarf tipped his hat to her, rose from his seat, and left her alone for the night. 

It took Bilba a very long time to reach slumber, but when she did, she slept like a rock. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------

Hobbits, calm and festive creatures that they were, never feared over showing their true emotions at any time. If a hobbit was happy, there was a skip in their step. If they were angry, they yanked their vegetables a little harder out of the ground and muttered. There were rarely large displays of feelings, simply because the Shirelings never felt a need to bottle things up or hide their real thoughts. 

So hobbits of Bilba’s generation were quite familiar with crying. 

Tears of both sorrow and joy were old friends to those her age, and whenever they popped up unexpectedly at some unrecognized trigger, the sobbing hobbit was immediately listened to and given whatever they required, whether it was space or company or food or what have you. Few had ever felt ashamed of their pain, for it was shared by most and treated like a healthy release of stress. To hobbits, crying was a sign of healing, a symptom of acceptance, and a step to peace. 

To dwarves, it was a sign of weakness. Stone did not weep. 

Bilba was a Baggins of Bag End, and a Took at that. She refused to give Thorin the satisfaction in seeing her hurt. 

After the last of her packages were loaded into carts and Frodo was wrapped up warm, the mistress of Bag End prepared to make her goodbyes. 

Hobbits from across the Shire had come to see off the dwarves in the Market. Some had actually formed friendships with the children of Mahal whom had lived nearby or even in their homes. And even though she had only told Rory the afternoon before, all of the children of Yavanna now knew what Bilba had done to preserve them. 

Adamanta Took and Laura Baggins were there, along with Gorbadoc Brandybuck and the Thain. The Gamgees were clustered with some of her other close neighbors, and the now-widowed Otho Sackville-Baggins was with them. Hobbits of every age and upbringing were huddled together to wish her luck in her new home. 

But not Rory.

Bilba approached her grandmothers slowly, clenching her jaw to force back the tears threatening to breach the surface. The older women were already brimming. 

No one spoke for a moment. No one knew what to say. 

But after a few minutes, Laura lifted something out of the basket she’d brought. 

Bilba sucked in a hard gasp at the sight of a flower chain. 

It was lovingly braided, with fresh flowers Bilba was shocked to see at that time of year. Fluffy pink and white carnations made up most of the necklace, but at the front there was a tightly embedded group of larkspur flowers, richly-colored and lush. It was held together with strong vines and clever knots; the plants would rot before they ever fell apart. A message was written in their flower language, unmistakable and precise.

Gratitude, remembrance, and a beautiful spirit. 

The young hobbitess was too shocked to move as her grandmother pulled it over her head, down to her neck, and did not even notice as the other hobbits began to pull out their parting gifts. 

The Gamgees had baskets of jarred fruit preserves; cherries, strawberries, grapes, and peaches jellied with sugar and stored tight. The Bagginses, known for their baking, had packages stuffed with breads, pastries, biscuits, cookies, and their distinctive blueberry-and-vanilla muffins. The Tooks’ gifts were more material: traditional Shire-styled blankets, embroidered with the same flowers in her chain; knitted hats, gloves, and cardigans; and a rolled parchment of the entire family tree. A small, clinking parcel was in Otho’s arms, and Bilba could guess it was the silverware Lobelia had swiped years earlier. And the Brandybucks had brought their chili. Crockpots of it. 

“For the hobbit whom has saved all others, we present to our Queen, gifts of our utmost thanks,” Adamanta illuminated. “The woman who risked her life and livelihood to protect ours shall never be forgotten by the hobbits of the Shire. Any whom do not know her story shall be educated on the mettle and valor of our hero, and the peacefulness and devotion in her heart. Bilba Baggins, Burglar of Bag End, Daughter of Yavanna, we revere you.”

Bilba expected herself to faint, but the darkness never came. 

She threw herself into her grandmothers’ arms, hugged them with all her strength, and did not let go until she was ready to hug the next hobbit, and the next, and the next. The dwarves nearby helped the hobbits load the gifts, now having to think of a hobbit as their queen. Most did not have a strong opinion on that matter specifically, the hobbits were an agreeable bunch, but a few officers knew that some members of Thorin’s court would have coarse words. 

But they’d cut their own beards off before they argued against the woman who had slain the white orc. 

Inevitably, the time to leave came. Frodo and Bilba said the last of their goodbyes, the food was loaded, and the newly-royal hobbits found themselves guided to the front of the convoy to sit with Thorin and the Company. Their large cart was hooded for comfort with a few blankets stacked in a corner in case of bad weather and a crate of food for the following days. It would take one week to reach Ered Luin, and more than a dozen to travel to Erebor. The wedding would take place in the Lonely Mountain, so Bilba wouldn’t mind any delays. Of course, the trip there wouldn't exactly be 'scenic'. 

_You will see what my rule has created across Middle Earth and learn what I have done to those few others who have rebelled against me._

Rivendel was a dwarven trading post now. The Misty Mountains were a kingdom and an army base all on their own. Rohan was rebuilding what it had lost, but still completely under Thorin's control. Mirkwood...

If there was anything more than ash left, Bilba would be impressed. 

“Are you ready, my Queen?” Thorin asked from the reins. She couldn’t peg his tone precisely, but nonetheless she didn’t like it. Taking a deep breath, she nodded. “Good. We have a gift for you.” 

Her heart jumped to her throat. Dwarven royalty had a very poor record with gifts. 

In fact it was Fíli and Kíli who pulled the present out of a small package, though a second wrapping covered it. Pale leather was bundled in a folded ball, and they began to let the wrap unwind, but nothing appeared under it. The leather was lined with snow white fur and hemmed and it—

It wasn’t a wrapping. 

It was a coat; a leather and fur coat. 

“We thought the lady who slew Azog should enjoy her share of the spoils. Dwalin killed the mount, but we all agreed you deserve to wear its pelt. I think it turned out quite nicely,” Thorin explained, sounding far too pleased with himself. Thorin happy was almost more frightening than Thorin angry. 

“Now you both have Warg-fur coats!” Kíli exclaimed. 

“It’ll help in Ered Luin especially,” Fíli added. “It’s still cold this time of year in the mountains. Here, try it on.” 

Numbness growing across her body, yet a sickened feeling in her stomach, Bilba let the princes pull the Warg-skin coat down her arms and around her. It wasn’t as if she’d never touched leather before—her journals were all leather-bound—but the coat’s caress on her skin, soft as it was, was revolting. It chilled her to her core. 

_As long as you are in Erebor you will forsake your upbringing._

The hobbit didn’t say anything, barely moving as the horse-drawn cart lurched forward and began its trek. A silent prayer to Yavanna, and Bilba gazed out the back as her homeland disappeared behind trees and fog. 

_If you ever break this contract, your heart will be broken far more than mine._

She wished she couldn’t feel anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To Ered Luin. 
> 
> Guess who's guest-starring?


End file.
